Book of short stories,
Published 1927. Passed
To my mother by her father,
Then to me. A receipt from
Some forgotten purchase,
From March 2001,
Marks a page, a short story
"The Last Leaf".
The camera pulls back
From a close-up: one defiant vine
Leaf on a snow swept wall,
A sign of hope to the child, near death,
Who gazes on it from her window
In the new day dawning.
The camera pans down
To the ground below; fallen ladder,
Artists brushes and the figure,
Presumed dead, of the has-been artist beneath his last great work.
Eyes water; sniffles won't stop.
Try to think.
Restored faith in altruism?
Distrust of poets and their power?
It all comes crashing down to this -
Mother, father, self.

I think it was Ashbery who said it,
But I've looked high and low
Without finding the source.
Like snow silently falling
While you are sleeping,
Till the tent pole breaks
Under the accumulated weight,
And you struggle outside
Naked in the beauty of the night.
Nature keeps on plugging away
While we are otherwise occupied.

Dry creek, yellow sand.
Add water, hands, dull metal.
Copper bracelet shines.

Flickering candle.
Citronella smells so nice.
Don't feel mozzies bite.

Aluminium
Crank case cover. Fingers
Help bolts find their thread.

Every day the wind
Has erased your footsteps from
The previous day.

Washing off the grime
Of war. Your hesitant smile.
With us forever.