White Sky

White sky this twilight
after rain, the day cooled
from its humid afternoon.
An exhausting day,
but now I know peace.
A plane drones over.
The Chardonnay
tastes light and tangy.

Last Light

In the last of the afternoon light

the sun appears, suddenly and quietly,

to light up the windless trees.

The palms in the neighbour's yard

form elegant fans. A cloud sails past

like a boat on blue water.

Then a plane goes over, noisy,

and the dusk settles down.

Me and My Gardener

Me and my gardener reminisce. 

We just found out we both grew up

in the same small town

on a cold, hilly, beautiful island.

Now we like the warmth.

'When I was in the Navy...' he adds

and I notice the dark tattoos

crawling from under his sleeve.

Young Single

My friend has cut his hair shorter,

smart. Suddenly he looks grown-up.

He says he shaved on Friday, and

already (Tuesday) must again.

He tells me all the things that prove

his new boyfriend loves him — really.

Although they aren't saying that yet. 

Silence after

Silence after 

days of downpour 

and shrieking wind —

as if the earth 

had stopped breathing.

Rain Storm

The water comes down in a roar,

speeded by the wind.

One of next-door's palm branches

crashes into my yard,

which is fast becoming mud;

others lash the fence.

In the northern hemisphere, I read,

this is the time of the Wolf Moon.

Here, the wind starts howling like a wolf.

Importunate

The wind and rain want to come in.

They ring my bells, they drive fists 

into my front door again and again.

I know it's not the cats demanding;

they are asleep in the house.

I do not open my door.

This Old Woman

(Describing myself from outside)

This old woman, slightly fat,

wears bright colours,

silver jewellery, crystals

and low-heeled shoes.

The pendants around her neck

are on cords she made

from shoelaces, knotted

to be adjustable.

The first one depicts

a five-pointed star

disguised inside

a five-petalled rose.

If people enquire,

to most she will say,

'Isn’t it beautiful?

It's a Celtic knot.'

Those to whom

she might say,

'It’s my pentacle; I'm Pagan,'

seldom need to ask.

Summer Country

Our mountain, Cloud Catcher

this morning has only one cloud 

held low in a long pocket 

half way.down the slope

where it stretches out

white and dazzling,

basking in the early sun,

prettier than pictures of snowfall.

Over the Road

To observe the world this afternoon

I decide on my front porch,

the tiny landing at the top of the steps.

From the house with the kids

diagonally opposite

obscured by trees,

come voices, and then

pop music, loud.

I know that some of the neighbours

will be feeling irritation, righteous.

But me I like the cheery beat.

I like the teenage voices laughing.

The Homeless

The homeless people gather —

half a dozen, maybe ten —

at the rotunda in the park.

They stay there most of the day.

Their voices are loud, some raucous.

Their movements are loose or jerky,

either way unrestrained ... free?

Freer, perhaps, than me?

They have community, 

they have laughter.

They are a closed circle

I would not approach. 

I have no wish

to change places.

My quieter, safer life

beckons me home. (I have cats.)

Winged

On the back of the chair

in my outdoor writing spot,

a winged being perches —

tiny, still, dark. 

The folded wings are black, 

with an underlay of deepest blue, 

edged with a line of green

which is its body.

Oh, the wonder of it — 

this small creature 

poised a moment 

showing me beauty.

The Not-Noise

There is a continual pulsing
out here under the trees:
a form of white noise,
not from machines, but from
the grass and the dirt and the leaves
coming alive after rain. Birds
and tiny insects, hidden lizards
and all sorts of creatures I don't even guess
are swelling this noise, which is not
noise at all, it is active silence.
And the air is making it, rushing in and out
in long whispers as the earth breathes.
But there is no breeze, it is other
than wind; it is the planet's
usually inaudible
heartbeat.

Two New Ones for My Collection

A clown in green costume 

half of it sparkly

with big white pom-pom buttons

sits in front of my window 

and rocks on a swing.

Behind the red and white paint

his expression is little-boy direct.

On the sill of the smaller window

a girl clown lounges 

all in shocking pink. 

I have to say, she is rather blank-faced.

Her mother has dressed her up pretty

and the poor child doesn't know

what is expected, so she just sits.

Water Dragons

They have left some droppings

like soft mud on the rim of the pool.

There is no foul smell, no smell at all.

In the gravel patch at one corner

they dig holes to lay their eggs.

My friend has seen them swimming

when the pool is empty of people,

their armour flashing blue-green.

Breathing In

It's summer! A car rolls by
with a surfboard on its roof.

The scent of the sea begins
from over the next few hills.

Extreme heat has passed.
There is just enough breeze.

The sun is now a lover
with a warm, gentle caress.

Who could be sad - not me -
on a day like this? I'm glad

to be alive, and here,
breathing in the summer.

Rural

Road and sky stretch blank,

the sky without a cloud,

the road without a bend —

large spaces, free

of the interruptions of cities

Purring

She used to squash in between us

and purr all night, loud and deep.

Now she sprawls in the space

where his pillow used to be.

When I reach to stroke her

she licks my fingers, and lately

she is beginning to purr again, a little.

Cool Change

Early evening and the cool change establishes itself, after taking all day to get a strong foothold. The freshness of the air soothes my skin. The trees rustle slightly. A few birds chirrup. The land starts to wake up ever so slightly from the weeks of searing heat.

There was little rain today. It came in tiny, light drops, but it lasted an hour or two, enough for the ground and the plants to drink and revive, reprieved for now. There's a hush; we scarcely dare hope this mercy will last. This is different from the somnolent, heavy, smothering hush of recent days.

The vine has suddenly put forth one perfect white flower.

Auditory

Yo Yo Ma's fine cello notes

linger in the air around me

long after the YouTube stops.

Top Cat

I know from my reading

the two pairs of eyes gazing up,

demanding extra breakfast,

are not pleading but aggressive.

I bend closer to their level 

and stare back, saying a firm 'No!'

They drop their eyes and slink away.

Aha! I'm still the Alpha.

Signs

The face in the mirror, caught, shocks. 

The chin has become truncated, the cheeks hollow, 

the small, staring eyes old.

It has changed overnight, the very shape 

altered by deep new grooves 

running down from the corners of the mouth. 

'You're doing so well!' friends tell me.

Here is the sudden evidence otherwise: 

private sorrow gouging visible tracks.

Already I don't look like me any more, 

the me that he would recognise and remember. 

This thought starts new tears. 

I remind myself he will know me by my essence, 

my energy. The strange little face — alien, unknown —

gazes back at me out of the mirror, blankly.

This Old Book

This old book with the blue, elaborate cover

ornamented in gold leaf and a painted inset

is called The Language of Flowers. It tells

of secret messages that might be conveyed

by particular blooms, each illustrated

by water colours on card, under smooth tissue.

But what it conveys to me is the remembrance

of my grandmother's face, who loved me

and gave me this book when I was a little girl.

Birth Day

My god-daughter Susie's first child

waited long in his mother's womb

or so it seemed to her, impatient to meet

face to face. His first pictures show him

robust, complete, rosy-cheeked

and utterly relaxed in his brand-new world.

Heat Wave

After the hot day, thunder

soft in the distance

and a cool breeze.

The cats are still by the fan

spreading their limbs

and their long backs.

Silver Leaves

Like flowers, 

like flowering trees,

like trees full of flowers —

these trees we drive past,

the silver undersides of their leaves

flickering and turning in the breeze

as we quickly drive past —

looking like white flowers,

trees full of flowers

flowering.

On the Verandah

The blue of the mountains deepens

in late afternoon light.

The space between them and me

is filled with trees and sky.

The breeze arrives lazily, greets us

and wanders away.

Seeing What Is Here

The person who lives here must be

in love with clowns — there are so many

sitting on the shelves, usually in pairs.

The walls are full of pictures,

all different kinds, with clashing colours —

pink and red, blue and green together.

One person lives here, with all these chairs.

How many visitors are constantly expected?

Or does she change position on a whim?

On the windowsill a bunch of geraniums

is stuffed into a little brown vase, 

leaves and flowers crowded yet jaunty.

The light in the room is warm and golden

from the unshaded mercury lamps

all burning brightly, somehow expectant.

Oh, Lovely Rain

Oh, lovely rain

too briefly —

now in aftermath

it drizzles down the pipe

rattling wetly

clang and slosh

then begins again

falling more gently

steadily,

whispers mingling

with the rattle 

of drips in the pipe

while soft, muffled thunder

booms in the background

from the west

from the mountains

and I open my doors 

wide to the cool.

Random New Year Observations

1.

The summer weeds rise up

profusely green on high stems.

The vine writhes, and intertwines

with its own long branches down the fence.

The squat pots for approved flowers

stand empty, their contents dead

long before the rain revived

the sleeping seeds of weeds

to green my garden beds.

2.

Languid Eleven drawls to enumerate

her list of expensive Christmas presents,

forgetting to thank her grandmother

for a thoughtful but more modest gift.

Observing surreptitiously,

I can almost discern the grandmother's hand

twitch (like mine) with a spanking itch.

Living in the Matrix

The shopping centre roars. Instead of tuning it out, I open my ears. It's closing time. The noise is made of individual sounds conglomerating — many loud voices, the clatter and clang of doors and bolts, the wind-rush of all the machinery that keeps this place functioning. That machinery wind-rush — also made up of different individual kinds of noise — is in the ceilings, the walls, and under the floors; it surrounds us. 

Marian at Rainforest Creek

Long dark hair, slim back,

she crouches by the stream.

The small brown ducks,

the towering trees,

the rounded stones, shallow water,
the weeds, the patches of sunny sky

spread themselves before her —

surround, encompass her:

her natural habitat.

This Morning in My Back Yard

The morning is bright early, with the blaze of true summer. Both expectancy and certainty are in the air. Yes it is warm, yes it will get hotter. The leaves are very still — no wind, not the slightest breeze. Even the tendrils of vine questing above the fence are motionless, balancing on air. My neighbour's roof makes patches of red through the green of palms and eucalypts.

The Quiet Street

It's the evening of New Year's Day — an overcast day, all day, though seasonably warm. The street is quiet, no sign of human activity. An unseen bird gives an insistent chirp. Then I realise it is two birds answering each other. I watch as they fly briefly into view from out of the treetops, to disappear over my neighbour's fence and away. I leave my doors wide open, letting in the cooling air.