My Name is Rosemary

"Never let anyone

shorten your name,"

said the Sage.

"You need Mary

for your strength."

And since then

I never have –

though, before that,

I liked Rose …

being a rose.

Mary. I ponder –

The Great Mother?

Or the sea?

(Rosemary means Rose

of the Sea.)

Mary the Mother

endured all things,

and was brave;

while the sea

is ancient, wild.

My namesake plant,

that resilient shrub,

has a fragrance

not sweet, but

faintly salt-tinged.

"Don’t," I say,

"call me Rose.

Friends call me

Rosemary." I smile,

and they comply.

Also shared at The Poetry of Three: three words per line on facebook.

In Fading Light

Cool evening, after
day's heavy heat.

I linger on
my top step,
for the breeze.

A faint rumble
might be thunder

or a car....


Linking to The Poetry of Three: three words per line on facebook

The Smell of Home

The smell of home is a gum-leaf, picked off the tree as I walk beneath, crushed between my fingers and held to my nose, deeply inhaled … then discarded. Plenty more where that came from!

Graphic from Rooweb Clipart / CC BY 4.0

Summer Driving in Northern Rivers

There is nowhere to stop.

This photo is just for me, 

in the camera of my mind. 

Above the mountain range, 

banks of thick, frothy clouds

echo the mountain shapes. 

I round a bend. On the hill, 

a stand of Norfolk Pine 

rises black against the sky.

(Where are you? Where are you? 

I want you here beside me, to see –

though you wander free ... 

and in tunnels of my mind.)