Selected poems
autumn, mutable
relief from heat and
the gushing sea breeze and
this stillness has me wanting
this morning the belly of the river gurgling
— digesting one tide, devouring another
this afternoon, driving up the scarp, a headless dugite
on the off ramp glistening in the acute light
I’ve noticed before how trees begin to die
in the dry granite beds waiting for the rains
caducità
this buttery sun clarifies shadows
they sit close inviting
someone up the street is pruning
secateurs counting cleck cleck cleck
caducità falling
this march
after reading Dear March – Come in by Emily Dickinson
closing the leap on February’s door
its Easterly thrashing at night
our skins stretched feet obese
— the heat of it leaves crisp-dried
scratching down the street
we’re wishful thinking the old seasons
on our screens a virus eats time
winds and weaves grows and
weather leaves the conversation and
we’re streaming news feeds
dealing statistics hygiene
anti-bacterial shields
in the harbour commercial channel helicopters
hover over cruise ships — passengers file
to quarantine or hospital sheets
pandemic lexicon of the news
social distance lockdown confused
Praise and Blame both mere and dear
Still the season will have its fill of fruit
quince and pumpkin plump themselves
pomegranates are rosy and heavy
the caesia a fall of pink tutus
stops strangers on their allotted walk
to call over the fence what tree is that?
Dear March, you Can’t Come in
don’t touch the door handle
I’ll send you an email with a new refrain
— stay safe
all of us
the Notre Dame spire fell
a clip on a newsite some punctum
a thin spire like all the spires
in all the villages
I went back to the quiet spaces
Sunday mornings on a pinewood pew
creaking with the weight of us
huddling between coats
the smell of people’s wardrobes
all of us
sinners and drinkers and lovers and babies the townies the farmers cousins gossips the southerners the northerners orchardists spud growers mill workers butchers the matron the chemist the betrothed the flower arrangers the brass polishers footballers ready to leave early some still drunk from the night before and those who just wanted to feel as if Christmas still exists
laying our traumas down
singing in unison — con brio
looking up
at the plaster saints
a long way from Paris
someone’s rearranging the stains
the awe of juveniles tender as veal
power nudged from its hiding place behind the rock
those who found a god through the rod
wounds still raw smouldering
they will build a new spire
will we ever re-learn
the habit of sitting
beneath that flat sky?
Josephine Clarke is a member of the Fremantle-based writers' group OOTA, and has had short stories and poetry published in Australian journals such as Westerly, Southerly, Cordite and the ABR (online). Her first collection of poetry, Recipe for Risotto, will be published by UWA Publishing in June 2020.