Saturday 25th March at the Lyrebird

Poster by Helena Ashton, vocalist with Noir.

Light

Sun in the glass,
a spangle — a spark!

Light let loose lets loose
epiphanies

hidden unseen and in between
a particle, a wave.

Light bends a band of rainbows
scattered at the scattered brim.

Light tells a million fortunes
in the echo of a window.

Light lures a host of angels
to toast eternal morning.

Strings of worlds rise like bubbles
in the shining flute.

After these years

of trillion transformations

I'll find myself wandering,
seeking a new form.

My bodiless eyes
will grow accustomed to phantoms
and colours that don't exist.

I'll wear the ghosts of my hands and hair.
I'll walk on the ghosts of my feet
along immaterial highways —

counting as I go unearthly trees
that flower and fruit
berries embedded in whorls of thorns.

Will I meet ogres? Angels? Stars?
Spirits from abandoned temples?
Megafauna of unborn planets?

I'll taste the fruit of the ghost thorn tree.
Its juice runs redder than my dead heart.

I'll remember it beating
the measure of my years
in my evanescent chest
at the centre of my flame.

Illumination

Un verre d’eau éclaire le monde

                                          Jean Cocteau 

A clean gleam —
the world is washed
upside-down in a tumbler.

A branching tree
climbs and delves
a perfect round.

A sheer aubade —
a host of parallels —
hallows the sky

and still I rise
up among the steeples,
gleaning meanings

and mirrored vigils.
All the streets and buildings
are jumbled sigils

swimming in a tremble
on the table-top.

The bridge

The bridge spans the stream between
fields of flowers and muddy trails.

I wish I'd caught the pixels—
pointilliste perspectives and a vanishing point.

Grey wood and keeling beams,
frogs by the saponated stream
creaking unseen.

I seek Your images
to keep forever
on my screen.

Flowers wink
in the falling light.
Frogs in the grey grass
creak unseen.

The rain

The rain rains
between sky and ground,
earth submerged
under puddles,
asphalt a slick swish.

The rain rumbles
all hours — all day
and at night
wetter — colder.

Under my umbrella
my belly is cold,
no thermals between
me and the sleet
sheeting down.
I hurry shivering.

The rain rains
from sky to ground
brown pools
cover the pavement.

In them I see
the inexhaustible
brilliance of cloud.

Daisies

in Spring, the daisy tree

is a blossom bomb

exploding pink,

honey-scented wheels.

Someone has lopped off

branches full of blooms

and tossed them on 

the compost heap.

I carry armfuls, four vases full, 

indoors. Pink petals revive

and white buds open 

in vase water.

The scent of nectar

permeates my rooms —

daisy honey housed

in hidden hives.

Currawong

Wintering in the elms, the currawong
yodel grace-notes

over and over the same melody
crying territory.

One comes close hopping along
the chilly balustrade

getting a grip, curious, courageous
or hungry, maybe.

Head tipped back a top note pitched
clears the cold sky.

Again that pitch, again that
clarity.

 I catch her eye, she flies
 off in grey plumes

 butcher beak hunting
 fresh meat.

Half past three

Sun and shadow chase each other over the grassy oval.
The bell rings.  School children mob the gates.

The afternoon is filled with corner-shop traditions --
ice-cream signage, flavoured milk and squishy lollies.

A century lapses along Inkerman Street
between fence palings and laundry-laden Hills Hoists.

The children mass home to their front doors,
like their parents and grandparents decades ago.

I dream their dreams, remembering
silly commercials interrupting sillier cartoons.

A glaze of latest, must-have toys infiltrates their sleep.
Post-millennial jingles sting immemorial schoolyard rhymes.

The boulevard is flooded

Flood waters pour
down the grand boulevard.
At night the rain keeps
falling and falling.
I exit the neo-classical portico,
stopping on the stoop
over the brimming street,
unwilling to wade
through night water.
I rest my case
on the marble newel,
awaiting a witness.
The trees' leaves eat
the plaintive moonlight
and I am a shadow
stone-still on the stair
awaiting a witness.
The dark rain falls.
My shoes are dry,
my case packed tight,
marooned at the portico
hour after hour.
A witness is coming
down the grand boulevard
on flood waters pouring
into the clearing.
And we will be washed
with a flurry of leavings
over slick bitumen
and the drenched beds of rivers
down to the waiting sea.