Writing smallstones August & September 2012
The koel calls all night. The sun shakes me awake like it too has been up all night and can't wait for the day to begin again.
Waiting outside my gate
red cap and endless patience
my garbage bin.
The digger stands in weary pause
a burning battlefield beyond
but it's sunset on the ANZAC bridge
and the digger's made of iron.
Wisteria hangs wearily as if the cloying heat of Summer had already pressed its weight upon the vine.
There is less gravity. The soggy sky now drops blossom rain. I peel layers, my shy skin warming to the spotlight and the crowds.
we paint a strawberry and apricot
across the Winter sky.
The Southern Cross
sinks slowly from my sight
as the scent of jasmine
rises fragrant in the night.
The clear notes of a butcherbird slice the pre-dawn silence. In the ensuing emptiness, feathered shadows crouch and wait.
The rain leans into shadowed doorways, expelling a random scurrying of people with newspaper hats.
The moon is magnified by the curve of day, mimicked in the city's mirrored towers, multiplied in the laden lemon tree.
The moon's stalwart smile
yellows like old enamel
as it sinks to the earth
winking at the moment of demise.
A raven drawls lazily at the slow revving of engines and the clanging of tradies tools. Monday is as relentless as I am reticent.