At Torakina Park
(Brunswicks Heads)
Three plover chicks prow Torkina Park, parents at their
helm: their heads alert, their eyes sails. If these were
waters, the kookaburra in the grevillea branches above
would be a shark. It sails near them. One parent flaps
and shrieks, the second pilots the chicks into
a harbour of low-slung branches.
Spring is a hard season for the lonely. The debris
of winter storms: grief-stricken trees, their
branches scattered & shattered on the ground
as if they were my heart. I sit Buddha-like
on this sea of grass. I listen. Angels' hymns
turn the loam of memory: my attachment to
terra firma where chicks tumbling in the sun-
light with their parents or the ocean of starlight
kindling midnight, blaze through the despondency ahead.
A mug's lament
I know my provenance. I remember the fiery hearth, the potter's patient care.
Fine bone china is a first cousin. These dainty cups refine the houses of
English gentry. My forebears were Ming porcelain; courtesans held
them aloft, their nails lacquered, pink as prawns. Location, location,
location spruik the real estate egos. Imagine an eon of sameness:
same neighbours, same location, same outfit, a life as featureless
as an eternal brick wall in a cupboard's rear. Envisage no variations,
a one-note whiteness as that purple polka dot clone (think Kim Kardashian)
enjoys around-the-clock use. I crave variety, the bright glints of champagnes
flutes. Come fleshy lips, come tantalising tongues, taste this luscious curve.
Hole in the world
Your curt gesture —
a hand cutting through air
— peels my skin.
Your ridicule slices
my heart at its song.
All we shared
falls through a hole
cut in the side
of the world.