His list is long— as he pauses on life
and Mount Wellington's shadows shift.
Those stealing life's song out of young shoots
breathe the longest
while his beloved dies young.

Scars bleed droplets, not gushing
like Cataract Gorge
when scratched, or touched afresh;
not given space—
how he was stung is remembered.

He tries to be the sunrise
over Bruny Island,
but redback spiders imbibe shadows
lying dormant
assessing risk, ready to strike.

Wounds murmur in the Tamar River
objecting, having heard it all,
wearing down joy's clouded lightness.
Rasping scrubwrens warn
while falsity sharpens its spike.

Flattery's forked tongue is honeyed
as leatherwood, but synthetic—
He resists its bait, casting it past the Derwent;
his skin crawling at false charm.
He retains his grounded sense of self.

Time doesn't wipe it all clean to heal—
it calcifies into chilled stone
like Cradle Mountain's fissured misted face
with sticks of pine trees burnt
while eucalypt gums regenerate, partially blind.

His garden grows wild now
through rambling cracks
as grasses from a cemetery head-piece
sport defiant blooms
of an unaccepted genus.

Memory is a compass
pointing due north
past Port Arthur's harried walls
and Antarctic gales
as tales of unfinished lives see, and wait—

a new year arrives
and will it be any better
then the last one we silted up...

or will the carpet just be turned over
to be trodden on all over again
with muddy boots
while we try to figure out
how to change the scratched record
on the turnstile of our days, spinning

before the last store of power runs out
for this globe, and the spring is silent
as all the bees have been sprayed
so nothing is being pollinated

as no one cared in time
in a worn and wasted life
we inhabit daily like robots
instead of living thoughtfully
with the rhythms of the earth
keeping clean streams
as the winter rests
before we sleep
for good

his days were few
when shadows came
to bring the tempest rains
to infiltrate a lad not even two

he learned to have a song inside
that danced and skipped along
no matter what that day
or night would hold

so when the sticks
arrived from monsters
with the thing that stood
and poked up right inside

the songs would play to quiet
the tearing pain that broke the door
where they would come to shove
themselves on toddler flesh

how long will he
with gentle life
be robbed
once more

some nights fold in on themselves
after too many years and decades
spent emptying oneself for others

like old letters re-opened accusing
from where they'd been laid to rest
found in yellowing files and folders

debris stirring from the shadows
unsettles the window ledge dust
irritating the membranes of scent

as memory floods with questions
tagging along like curious children
squabbling about whose fault it was

that we sit writing with brimming eyes
with the kind of solitary regret and shock
that comes when bodies in a silent house

wander around aimlessly trying to fill time
with their pointless pursuits and blinded eyes
imagining just another hit from some website

will stave off stories of their past they shelved
for nights like this when the spectres return
to bring the bill from aged secrets banished

He lives in fear of the cobwebs of time
wrapping themselves around his eyeballs
stopping him from seeing what others see
those who avoid dark shadows and pitfalls

For the cracks and corners of most of life
remain a mystery regarding the nuance
of how everyone else seems to exist
in various tones absent for him

when did a camp fire
become a wild fire
raging through
two hapless
souls blinded

in love with love--

how did it all grow
to a spreading inferno
with bait that satiated
opportunities denied
threatening what is

to be lost forever--

carefully built
solidity over years
of hard work and much
sacrifice, seeing the long-term
goals, knowing that a flash in the pan

often ends in a bitter rainstorm--

when did a camp fire
become a wild fire
raging through
two hapless
souls wounded

so stop now--

what do you do, my friend
when life descends to
a sense of being in
a veritable vortex

a whirlybird
careering on,
tumbling here
and there while

we're needing ever
to stay perfectly intact
lest forward movement
is lost to us all for good...

and we feel out of sorts;
others are like forms in
a darkened fog passing
by us in a swirling mist

though there are pauses,
times when we are stuck,
seconds that we wonder
will it ever be okay again--

just the right wind can
infuse our sails afresh
and generate breath
past the hurdles

to a life for us
beyond this pain
and the pesky trials
to some quiet smiles...

so hang in there
my sad and
lonesome
friend

for the
maelstrom
of our lives
can ease so we

can joy recall
be happy
for now
after all