The Season

People always complain
this time of year.
Down here, the earth is tilting
on its axis and the evenings
and mornings have become cool
with summer regrets.

The clean night has lengthened,
too much so for you to enjoy
the things you’ve entertained the last months lazily.
I am down on the unlighted shoreline, the starry water
up to my ankles and warm as socks.

You’ll be at work soon.

Not much here is deciduous;
the Rainbow Lorikeets tease each other
amongst the bottlebrush, the Galahs chew on aerials mindlessly,
indiscriminately. Another bird (King Parrot, maybe) 
looks on pretty, but not doing much, and I,
hands in pockets, enjoying the May sun,
am quietly glad you’re all inside




He let the cold white spread across his knuckles
gripping the grey vinyl wheel to an old four wheel drive.

He felt like a cigarette, 

whipped by the 80 kilometre per hour window air and June westerly, the one his life sailed,

and brought him here.

The pastoral greens darkened and blurred, the roos came out, the sun went down, the heather turned purple.

His love slept awkwardly in the passenger seat, mouth open to the sky
to catch the comets when they fall.

‘It shouldn’t be long now’ he says aloud

to the window air, June westerly.

The last drop of heather stepped aside
to give way to the salty sky

falling in, pushing their feet into the floor.

‘It shouldn’t be long now’.

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