Trees keep falling down.
We saw, cut, drag them away.
More fuel for the fire.

New growth. Leaves, flowers.
Bud, unfurl expectantly.
Future uncertain.

New gravel pathway,
Softened by rain drops, etched
By flowing water.

Imagine returning from the Crusades
With enough money to build
A grand stone house, so far
In the mountains that conflict
Could never find you again.

Sitting in this courtyard,
On the uneven flagstones laid
Long ago, I like to think
They succeeded, at least
For a generation or two.

But history tells us
You can run, but you
Cannot hide. So we who hide
Must return to confront
What is happening
In the world.

In a still night under southern stars,
Sleeping in a rough farm shed,
From neighbouring farms
Across the valley, the dogs bark.

In our home city, the sound
Of trams rattling down the road
Blends into the background noise.
But next door, the dogs bark.

In this city, both ancient and new,
With moonlight streaming
In our window across the tiled
Rooftops, the dogs bark.

A string of meaningless words,
Repeated endlessly,
Can be visual art, it seems.

In 1942 Gorgio Mirandi painted
A still life of a cup and a vase
Because they were there,
And reflected light.

A string of meaningless words
Can be art criticism, it seems.
And may even be poetry?

But string is real:
Tied around my finger,
I feel it and remember.

Stone, glass and steel is real,
If you can touch it,
Otherwise it could just be
An illusion.

The finger prints and DNA
Of all of us who touched
The rusted steel installation,
Despite the signs, are real,
Though you cannot see them
Or feel our presence.

Like the shiny parts
Of bronze statues touched
By each passing viewer,
Do these not form part
Of the work of art?

In vivo; in  vitro;
in silico; in lapis;
In pulverem.