WINTER IS COMING

I stumble

On crumbling pieces of driftwood -

One shaped like a human forearm,

Others the length of lanky legs,

And some fanned like hands

Or smashed like broken ribs.

If I can find a heart

I might be able to assemble

A man without a brain,

Who could frolic in the sand

Before the arrival of the fine rain

Already drenching

The tangled branches of banksias

And the purple petals

Of morning glory

On the wooded hills.

Choppy surges lick the sky

Between me

And an almost invisible

Distant headland

With an old lighthouse

Standing solid,

Like a dry fountain

In a forsaken past.

The beach is cold,

A southerly blows

And delivers icy slivers.

There is such a severe chill factor

That it makes me shiver

And it threatens,

By way of freezing gusts,

To shrivel my beard,

A two-day stubble of grey and greyer.

Fizzing crests of waves

Turn back on themselves

Before crashing

On invisible seaweed shelves,

Rough rocky ledges,

And concealed sandbars,

The white spray creating

A salty mist over the bending sea.

Soon it will blend

With a bitter shower

And I will wish

For the sizzle of a fire

As the drizzle

Rips through my threadbare fleece coat

And tears at my ageing torso.

OUR FATHER

Although I am old

I am still a child

Of one

Who always cares for me

And ensures I have

All I need.

He guides me

As I take every turn

And as I enter

Every roundabout.

He walks with me as I stroll

Across green parks

That flank the strands

Above sands of primrose

Where I can paddle

In the gurgling shorebreak

Before pausing to watch

Parades of the coolest shades,

Dissembling in impressions

Like works of abstract art,

Beside turquoise waters

That shimmer in the sunlight

While rippling in the breeze.

Even when it is dark,

And I cannot see,

He sends me visions

So I know the waves glimmer

Under the moon at night

When I listen in my sleep

To the sighing sea,

Diminished, breathy,
Rolling with a rhythm

Written in the beginning

And set to the tempo

Of dances for angels.

NEGATIVE GEARING

Living in a tent

And paying too much rent;

It’s far too hot to rain again,

So at least I’ll get a suntan.

I am an old fashioned man.

When I hear women screaming,

And children crying,

It makes me worry.

And then I remember

I live in this half hell

Of postmodern relativism,

Where any behaviour is blessed

In the name of tolerance,

And only the aged

Are not accepted.

A man’s ghostly black heart stores up follies -

Think of Gatsby, or Heathcliff, or Enjolras -

And yet the polo player always wins

In tainted times like these.

For women there’s no real choice –

To be a fool is still by far the safest ploy.

Living in a flat

And hoarding too much gold;

It’s warmer by the minute

And it’s never been so cold.