Yesterday a raven, a dragonfly today Yesterday a one-eyed raven Receiving bread from an older friend's wiry, practised hand. No abrasion where its second eye should have been.Only shiniest sheen, slightly sunken.Hunched on her fence. Tweaking its bluish blade hither and thither.Downy chest ruffling in January's gentle northerly.Venturing closer, sinuous clamps shifting, shuffling on the fence line. Unexpected contour in coat-tail debonair.On first sight from an armchair by the window, my words middlebrow:'that is one ominous bird.''yes ...' she only gazed across the room.'he has his place in nature, just the same.' Watching his eye watching nothing long, I realised I had watched nothing for long, lately.~~A dragonfly caught my eye,Brought to rest on shore.In a wing, delicate geometry.In a wing, travels in time.Refracted in wet sun.Never to be duplicated.Drowned in everlasting sleep.A sentimental burial beckoned from dunes behind us.I scooped the gritty, wet bronze beneath the body.Fizzing on wings afresh it curved away over wild ocean.James Hughes
Flight of the Falling I am trying to love with an open hand,trying to understandhow kisses can land on my palmonly to fly away.When I'm with you,I take off my rings,unlatch my watchand untie my hair.And it's so quiet, so so quiet,like a film without a soundtrack.I can't tell if it's a love story or a tragedy,because no one's composed the music yet.We're in the space before knowing,where falling and flying are the same thing.I've got bruises under lily skinfrom our lovemaking,thumbprints from being grippedin so many soft places,making blood flowunder the surface in burstslike little fireworks.My love for youwing-clipped in my chest,as we chatter in circlesand touch knees under tableclothsso well-drapedno one could ever seethe flutter you provoke in me.A mute canary chained so tight,its rib-rattling song will never take flightto set the room abuzz;there will be no words of love.All grief carries the weightof those losses that have come beforeand those we know are coming.We sense their meandering passage over our skin.Bronwyn Lovell
Climbing He scrabbles bark for a footholdfledgling muscles limber as a possum'sThey've cut school to snatcheggs, the possibilitiesof prize, of schoolyard aerodynamics,the swoop and pecking bravadoSwings up in sunlight,