LANDSCAPE

Middle Harbour: Humid Day

Settled under a yellow-grey film
the headlands wilt towards
their bays,
water as reflective as lead;
something will stir
in the canopy.

Interior: North Shore, the Twenties

Aquamarined fireplace,
catching up indigo cushions
on white upholstery,
 a small landscape, plainly framed
on the wall,
a whatnot table bearing a terra cotta pot
flourishing a fern.

STILL LIFES and INTERIORS

Dutch Kitchen

The sun falls in
warm with tea
and these biscuits,
even the slate flags are warm
under the hooked rag rugs
replicating maps of the old Empire.

The light catches on
the Delft jugs,
radiates the blues and the white
of vases and cannisters,
jugs and saucers.

Warmthe flows
through
some Dutch kitchens.

contemporary miracle

The miracle of taps

which turn on the soul,

let flow inspiration

in gushes and streams,

maybe rusty at first

but always

running clear.

For those who doubt they are poets

Star Struck

Fixed for your moment in the sky’s turbulence,

its rose gold steadfastness

amongst the violet, mauve clouds, its highlights

lost and skipping battering –

our star,

the writers’ star – ‘Evening,’ to Coleridge,

apostrophes to Keats –

certain you could set your course

but for the wheeling of the Heavens,

the dealing of the winds,

the fickleness of clouds,

the waxing and the waning,

the thinning and plumping

of the lemon wedge moon,

the strawberry moon,

the bitter cold sliver of moon

ready for a teacup,

a g & t,

to decorate a fillet of fish

but for the wavering.

Take note of its presence,

fear not its failure,

trust to its shine

even up against the silvered brilliance

of the full moon,

the blue moon, 


the headless moon.

Trust to its rising,

its course,

its setting,

trust to its hovering,

its hiding,

its always taking its place

in the zodiac,

in the galaxies,

the constellations

there in universal space.

Do not ever be deluded

into thinking

things mean less,

that the penumbra

is an after effect

of the source.

CREDO

Immaculate Scone

Cut into three

writhing and relaxing

alone on their plate:

       water,

       air,

the transubstantiation of seed,

the blood of the berry,

the ascension of milk

to dough as well as cream.

Who needs a creed?

Saying Farewell

Memories I Have Never Had of the Maramasike Passage

After this bay, lagoon, gulf …

we approach the confining arc

of trees reaching, clasping.

The passage seems to be

at times

sunstruck then

cool, dark.

We enter

gliding through clear waters,

aware of special peace

undisturbed even

by tidal currents –

they must sweep both ways?

The banks –

closing now –

might offer glimpses

of anything …

perhaps parrots cavorting amongst dark leaves,

a cradled possum, a crocodile

or an abandoned canoe.

We have heard

of people

snatched by tides.

Through it sunstruck through

the cool and dark, through

the more or less dappled

ordinary we sail

the legendary passage.

Shadow lizards dash

water music brushes our ears

for a moment

from the dark

a splash of dancing light

falling from leaf along bough

to glimmer in water.

We are drawn along

between the banks,

the helmsman hardly has to steer.

Our interest forward wavers

in any case

there is no future.