Late Morning

He is resting under the blankets
one arm thrown up against his head,
eyes closed, face pale.

Later I hear him wake;
he is murmuring to the cat.
Then I hear him singing.

Myself at Breakfast

I tilt my head right back
draining the strawberry taste
of my diet shake breakfast
and its soft, creamy texture.
Then with one finger I prise off
the bright pink top of the shaker
to spoon out what’s left
on its sluggish way down the sides
thick like oozing lava, but cool,
deliciously cool.

Winter Evening, My Place

I can see the grey rain
hanging heavy in the clouds over there
coming down close to cover the mountains.
I can almost feel it in the cold air
which tingles like fine drops of water.

Two green lorikeets with deep red beaks
tumble above me, flying low
and disappear, shrieking in play,
into the bottlebrush tree.

Awakening

They were miaowing for breakfast.
I groaned, turned over, went back to sleep.
They waited awhile. A little later, the black one
leapt softly on to the bed. I opened my eyes
to a gentle touch on my arm with his paw
and an earnest, questioning gaze. He even
had his claws retracted. So polite!

And It's Not Even Spring!

Hanging out the washing,
I hear, ‘Click, click’ on the fence posts,
turn and see green face, red beak
pecking at the vines, not a bit afraid
of my proximity. But by the time
I fetch the camera — gone.

I had to get the bird book out.
It was a Scaly Breasted Lorikeet,
my first. (I deplore the name.
Those ‘scales’ are bright feathers.)

Morning Sun

Even through closed blinds
the morning sun
dances into my kitchen.

The Garden My Father Made

I wake from a dream 

of my childhood garden,

magical garden,

my personal Paradise.

Only now, in my old age,

I realise my Dad made it,

that place of my happiness.

Then, I simply enjoyed.

Playtime

That hard, percussive sound 

of a football repeatedly kicked

resounds along our street.

The boys are back from school.

The cats watch through the flywire.

They avoid catching my eye.

The fur is lifting on their necks. 

They do not ask to be let outside.

Hurting

When the pain is bad,

sometimes he gets very quiet.

He seems absent-minded,

his expression saying

he can barely tell who I am.

Then it tires him at last

and he drops asleep in his chair.

I don’t know their name, but ...

The orange flowers on the vine

cascade down my fence,

brightening the dusk

as it comes to my garden.

What My Eye Lights On

(another six things)

The big tub of honey on the bench

candied now, dull gold through the plastic;

a present from our neighbour Joseph

whose friend has a hive.

My little red hand torch

in case of a blackout.

The blue handle of my office scissors

sticking out past the surrounding pens

in the white mug on my desk —

the mug, with drawings around the sides:

a delicate peacock; rosebuds. 

A photo of my firstborn, graduating

in his black gown and mortar-board, 

holding a rolled white scroll.

(He still had his blonde hair then.)

Overlooking my laptop
a tiny, gold-painted statue of Bast.

I wake up and see ...

Andrew pushing his wheely walker,

bending forward in his navy pyjamas.

The bright white mercury light globe

reflected in the bedroom mirror.

The dream catcher Irene made us years ago

hanging in the window; its feathers and beads.

Big black Levi climbing on the bed and purring,

making a pounce for a dangling cord.

Two little pictures my father painted,

one in northern Tasmania, one on Flinders Island.

Their dark wood frames; the orange tones of the earth;

the dull green trees, cloudy skies, pale water.

The discarded picnic rug thrown off the bed.

Its tartan pattern: warm red and lots of soft blue.

Inspired by Linda Gregg getting her writing students to write down every day six things they’d seen, as reported by Fiona Robyn in The physical world pours in.

Apu

The mountain is a profile of a man’s face. 

He lies on his side, looking up:

long nose, strong chin, sloping forehead. 
On a very clear day, the cave halfway up

is visible, forming an eye.

In Peru, the village of Aquas Calientes

is right beside a mountain

with a vast ear on its side ...

Oh, I have had and am having

such a lovely life!


(Apu is the Peruvian word for mountain spirits — to put it very simply.)

Passage

I pass the house that was Christa’s.

The weatherboards are blue now

under the white gables. 

All the same, it looks old.

Breath

I notice the blessing of breath.

After being breathless, I savour

breathing deep and free.

In Pain

Pain reduces him.

A day of pain, and he

can focus on little else.

He becomes the pain;

it consumes him,

crowding out the not-pain

that used to be himself.

Bed in the Morning

It’s cold, but they’re cosy:

the cats wound around each other

and the man who peeps bright-eyed

from piled-up pillows and doona.

And there's a space for me.

She wants her dinner early

With him, her miaow is low and plaintive.

She knows he, tender-hearted,

will give in to her pleading

unless I intervene.

I am the strict one 

who will make her wait.

With me, a different voice:

sharp and shrill, she swears at me in Cat.

The Geraniums

The geraniums

newly replanted

lie all over the ground.

From their small pot

they grew up bright and tall.

Now in their bed of mulch

they sprawl horizontal

looking too tired to care.

Dusk

A ragged feather of smoke 

lifts from behind the hill

past darkening trees.

Birds are flocking 

for their resting places.

‘It’s cold,’ says Andrew.

‘Come inside 

and shut the door.’

Writing Small Stones

‘It’s difficult,’ he says, and it is —

looking out, paying attention

to the world as it is, not

our ideas of the world.

‘Look!’ I say and he does, 

then struggles to write. I read 

and see that he, who is storyteller, 

must shape even these

into stories. Of course!

Hospital Worker

She looks young:

quick stride, red shirt, 

blonde curls caught at the neck

and thick ponytail bouncing.

She rings the bell

at the Patient Area Centre,

walks straight in, drops

a document on a desk, returns.

Only then, as she strides back 

towards me, the way she came,

I notice that her face

is tired, and not young.

Dining room / office: flashes of red

I look around the room and see flashes of red: the covers of scattered notebooks; a discarded cap slung over the back of a chair; the gauze bag holding talismans; a close-up tulip cut from a magazine and displayed on the facing wall of my desk; beside it the print of Bette’s woodcut, rose-hips on a branch; the ribbons and pom-poms on clown figurines I collect; the red ‘zero messages’ sign on my desktop phone;  the tomato sauce bottle nearly empty; the cap on the peanut butter jar; the torch handy on the bench in case of blackout; the handle of the little paring knife; the red plastic legs of the folding clothes-horse; a pair of bright red underpants hanging to dry; the stylised flowers on the cushion covers; pictures of fruit on the place mats — strawberries, apples, deep red grapes; my bookstand for easier reading at the table; the red star on my ‘urgent’ file; my tabasco sauce ...

I watch the TV chef

I watch the TV chef 

preparing crayfish

the white flesh filling 

the bright orange shell.

He takes a fat claw

and slices it across.

As he pulls out the meat

and drops it into his mouth

I smell and taste it,

the succulent tang

as fresh and sweet

as in my childhood.


Note: Crayfish is the Australian term for lobster.

Revealing!

Watching a tense episode of ‘Angel’

I find myself sucking my thumb.

Mixed Up

Autumn here fools the plants
with false Spring every year.
Now that it’s winter, the frangipani
has lost those brief, wrong blooms.

The lady who lived here before
planted cherry tomatoes. They
are still fruiting in winter, climbing
all over the bare frangipani stems.

The flowers Teresa gave me

The flowers Teresa gave me
are still fresh and bright

upright in the vase
after nine whole days

clumps of yellow and white
with long green leaves

and in the centre
one red carnation.

Close View

Looking out at my garden, I see
the tiniest spider, a delicate speck
on the other side of the glass.

A little further along, two insects,
small but twice the spider’s size,
hang wrapped and still in web cocoons.

At darkfall

Pale winter sunset. The trees
along the top of the far hill
make edges of black lace.

As we lay in bed last night

As we lay in bed last night
a low, distant whirr began
only just audible, ominous.
The wind, I thought; but
it sounded unnatural.

Would this be the night
of the invader — human
or extraterrestrial, either way
alien — arriving by stealth;
would this be our death?

Joy

The preacher spoke of inner joy,
how to find that in small things.

I looked up and saw my friend
coming in through the door.

The Cats Curled

The cats curled
at the foot of the bed
mirror each other's poses
exactly: two circles of fur.

The Cat with Shining Eyes

The cat with shining eyes
rests in my arms all night,
her love no less deep or true
than that of humans.