Perhaps dying isn’t hard after all

Ice

The sun slides westward.
Silvering icy seas
Warming my cold-blotched hands,
Shriving the skin of my soul.

Blue sky belying polar wind,

Green grass infertile land,
Creased smile the belch of pain:
Uncharted worlds.

Or do these steadfast, gurgling waves,
Kaleidoscopic magpie calls,
Dear friends' departing touch,
Betoken rhythms underneath

Which ear nor eye nor mind can trace,
Or even guess, but only celebrate?
Walk we this thin and silent ice
Because a pillowed master sleeps?

Peter Matheson



Mopoke


Into the cool precincts of night
like winged Buddha,
silent, full-moon-eyed
in the blue shadows
under the eiderdown
of a flaming coral tree,
watching the night-watchmen
with their blue-white beams,
possums rummaging in the bins.
Mopoke. Mopoke.
Rodents scurrying, brushed
off the bush rug, one by one,
unlamented,
as if they were brown buds.

So, I thought: perhaps dying
isn’t hard after all,
but so much softness
wrapping itself around us—
as soft as down, thick and cushiony.
Spirited away
nestled in a feathered chest
we close our eyes
against the dappled, vaulted light,
riding the high notes
beyond pain,
the strings of our sinews plucked
until our bones are clean and white.

Cassandra O'Loughlin

 

 

submit a comment

Similar Articles

Nothing new in cynicism towards politicians

  • Brian Matthews
  • 17 October 2007

When reconciliation becomes a last-minute vote catcher, only the deepest, most corrosive cynicism is possible. Trampling on the rights of others for political advantage was the modus operandi of Adelaide's Nomenclature Committee in 1837.

READ MORE

Death and birth set cerebral thriller in motion

  • Tim Kroenert
  • 17 October 2007

Despite dwelling at opposite ends of the power spectrum, the two characters each know the desire to seek a new life in a new land, and have both experienced first-hand how difficult and painful that transition can be.

READ MORE

We've updated our privacy policy.

Click to review