April 2014

sycamore seed
the wingbeat of my heart
against hers

naked mango
ripeness splits open
at the lips

unborn night
the city lights
hiding us

whisper-weight
the merging of shadows
after dusk

Anzac Day
I return from the war
with my self

a day of few words . . .
the beatific vision
escapes the white space

on a ginko walk
the diminishing circles
of the same old words

mud slide . . .
I meet my future self
face to face

awake before dawn
the cry of some restless bird
shadowing stars

trickling stream
through a vale of vision
into saline eyes

dying light . . .
our background chatter
crumbles away

aging eyes . . .
endless the vision
at dewfall

this autumn
loneliness colours
a hundred leaves

paschal moon —
blood washes over
our feet

the still days —
summer dies once more
to itself

Maundy Thursday —
the long day's journey
into night

moon-starved night —
day's diminuendo
note by note

the one
who came before —
harvest moon

passing over . . .
the livid otherness
of autumn clouds

paschal moon —
light enters the void
of a tomb

mountain mist
the seamlessness
of being

dew fall . . .
entering her shadow
by moonlight

pond shadows —
tadpoles dress within
old words new

melt down —
the trickling half-life
of spent rods

park bench --
yesterday's warmth
old news

For Hemi

forty days . . .
Hiruhirama
bead by bead

with a spring
all that a tree can
no longer contain

fogbound . . .
the forgetfulness
of a river

so unexpected
the organophosphate
and the mute bird