from Days

from Days

from Days

Day 1

The grace of day wasted
through infirmity
and lack of will
with nothing left
to do but walk
I have no map
the steep path leads down
to an unknown place
a thick marsh bridged over with planks
two boys’ shining heads
just visible between the reeds
intently bent on catching
frogs or fish
debris of cockatoos   the broken seeds
and scoured leaves
under all the big pines and gums
one’s black trunk
furred with a fine bright ruff
of green then
the scalded cliffs and thick-treed
valleys cradling cloud
I carry the shock of neon-purple berries
like miniature eggplants glowing
in the gloom of the rainforest
a currawong  wing
shorn clean off
lying on the ground
as if pointing a direction
through the vast expanse
of deserted golf course
the clipped and cut order an oasis
and yet here I am lost
if this were a dream
I might think there was some
meaning
but I am wide awake
at least the day redeemed



Day 3

The wind continues to tear at the trees
batter the house
then subsides as it has this moment
everything waits   a besieged town
for the next assault
we are tensed  holding our breaths
last night our sleep disturbed
by a knocking at all the windows and doors
trying to get in
bringing us dreams of poems
that will never be written
and hover over our poor heads
like soft wings
mothers’ voices singing
to their lost youth
the light above our beds
was golden and black
and we could not wake  nor grasp it
the spirit shivered
and turned one way
then the other
until all the places were used up
and what was left
was the awful roaring
still trying to get in


Day 4

Last night low clouds drifted
back and forth
the house sailing
among them as if at sea
we sat before a fire
and talked of infinity—
of death   where all that makes us
what we are   goes
yesterday morning
a black cockatoo
sat on a branch outside my window
I could see its red crest
the day grey  marked by rain
mist like ghosts moving between
the huge trees
voices   the sound of bird cries
today I woke to find
the sun shining
and I am more alone than I have ever been
death is not the problem
nor  nothingness
it is the shadow
existing side by side  always
with the light
that the rose is not enough
that the soul is lost to itself   a feeble creek
flowing into brackish weeds