Selected poems
Matchbox dreams
The dirt ploughed easily under our bulldozer fists
After rain it was still dust underneath; roadworks were brisk
Kangaroos down from Mt Ainslie pooped in our miniature town
new boulders for the centre of our roundabouts
Around and out — the arteries in the front garden ended
in neat driveways bumper to bumper with matchbox cars
She had the best spot embraced in the roots of a silver birch
I had a purple Torana to her clutzy green station wagon
She raced over trailing roads; I neatly parked in my garage
of low hung shrub decorated with flower petal furniture
Round and round we drove our matchbox dreams
until something told us we were going nowhere
Ended up old in grid-patterned cities known as the real world
The matchbox cars chipping themselves silver
jostling in a box moved and stored and moved
waiting for the lights to change again
Civic carousel
Horses in revolution
entrance young eyes with their prancing
They pull their hands free of yours to give chase
A competition of brothers
riders without horses
Called back
yes, sing out that it is time
Instructions: stretch cloth full length of arms doing the Jesus thing on the cross
fold lengthwise
rotate in a rhythm to form a cushioning band
of red and green kitenge
Pneumatic organ music ends
Horses stop, the musical chairs enthusiasts of the equine world
The children return
Further instructions: get youngest child to climb up
tie the cushioned band of cloth
harness him secure
Set off, toddler riding high, up and down on your back
Older child, usurped to walk will protest loudly
competing with the laughs of the carousel children
competing with the organ music starting up again
competing with the grind of all the pretty horses up and down and round
Maternal stillness eases the noise; your eyes fall
on your first-born like a benediction
you finished to cry now?
Hands hold
steadily you move in one direction on
Park dance
the council workers
wear their orange vests
to camouflage them in the autumn
in the park
with rakes not common or garden
(industrial, edges 2 foot long)
they shepherd leaves into volcano piles
a ballet
rhythm accumulating on a step, in
to the leaves
then back out
to the edge
alternating, circling, a right foot, a left
the rakes dancing never kissing
plovers waiting to see what turns up
Jane Downing has poems published around Australia