David Brooks

Side by side

Strange Fruit

I dreamt I was a tree
covered with strange fruit.
Well, no, I lie:
there was no dream,
there was no tree

but what am I to do
with these dark things
breaking out about me,
splitting,
oozing with sap?

David Brooks

(Australia, 1953)

From these particulars
what generality? Some
honesty of the heart perhaps, honest
doubt? honest
helplessness?

Rain
comes again, the birds
cease; beneath their silence
frogs, crickets, the run
of water in guttering, patter
of overflow, soul
opening,
drawing breath.

(‘At Bunga’, Walking to Point Clear)

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Poems of David Brooks

Strange Fruit

I dreamt I was a tree
covered with strange fruit.
Well, no, I lie:
there was no dream,
there was no tree

but what am I to do
with these dark things
breaking out about me,
splitting,
oozing with sap?