To my dead son or daughter;
I left you, let you pass,
kept you out

frozen: The mark of
the palmist foretelling five children,
I climb this hill now, with four at my side.

Your memory: A shadow on the distant range,
where eucalypt is  to its last;
the blue mountain.

Though I climb and four grow,
the wife that was then is now gone;
her grief and her echo.

Still I sense the soft pad of your call,
the tug of your passing,
and almost
the first breath of greeting.



*MChallis 2006

inspecting momentarily
the visiting sulphur-crested cockatoos
leave our pine-tree for another, further down the hill

en masse, they fly towards and just above us,
their screeches, loud and unmistakeable
are full of enthusiasm and intent

some, slightly smaller in size, are silent
I wonder if they’re the understudies of the chorus
closely following flight-lines of their elder’s character and bravado

these beautiful creatures, so independently defined
raise a cacophony that exhilarates
every fibre of the soul and fills the heart with laughter

self-less, expanding and enraptured
I briefly lift to the massing of their flight:
a complete and joyful glimpse, of full participation

While i was learning to savour the new taste of cashew and walnut in the autumn of that year
you were learning to eat the bones of your neighbours' dog as you fled from an earth gone moist
the leaves of war were torn from the jungle as a cavalry of shrapnel burnt away the air
you were learning to hold your breath while i was doing the same in a suburban swimming pool

when the dust of your family filled the lids of your eyes
being left to see for yourself held quite a different meaning
while your skin seared from the heat of warfire
i was feeling the warmth of a shopping centre in winter

when you went without feet, a landmine exploding your underneath world underneath
i sprained an ankle at basketball
the words of an american god spat forth from an automatic weapon
and you saw the tongues of the lamb inviting you to feast in a foreign language

and while i drew in crayon on the kindergarten wall
you were drawn in the crosshairs just before the smell of cordite

For Pamela*

True love is my companion
She guides me in delight
She whispers all the names for love
With soft attending might

True love is my companion
A swirling heart of one
A blaze of pure intention
An illuminating sun

True love is my companion
She dreams beyond my dreams
She is where the compass points
And all that's in between

She is sunlight bathing
A soothing gentle breeze
Water from the mountain
Harmony and ease

True love is my companion
As gentle as the dove
Within the heart's dominion
My companion true, is love

when it's time to write the words again
they come one by one
filing in through an opening,
it might be that they've waited patiently
for a right time or an invitation
but not always
I like it best when they rush in, fervently needing attention

hearing them coming, I
lift my head
and with a certain kind of tightness in the belly
begin to place them quickly,
carefully
in order or progression, to
ensure that for the reader,
they carry meaning

from time to time I
go back to the beginning of a line
and review the order
review the syntax
the scansion
the metre
or perhaps re-order or re-use or remove one or two
as necessary

repetition can be a feature of this process
as sometimes words
want to come in twos, pairs
or repeated phrases,
to create emphasis;

and of the words upon arrival
I marvel as they move a line
to connect and weave and work to
lift from the page a story

as a poem
as a promise
as a possibility