Saturday, May 28, 2016

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.


Monday, May 23, 2016

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.


Sunday, May 8, 2016

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.