Alone the third thing can't be known.
Alone, I am a cold, dark stone
In a universe yawning lusterless,
Spinning void of aim.

Then light shines
In eyes and skies
Of gray and blue
And I am a new daymoon.

Night leads the day
As day ushers night;
Light follows darkness
As darkness the light.

I follow, you pull;
Take my arm, check my stride.
You and I mark time and tide.

We meet.
We pass.
We kiss.
Eclipse.
Heart quivers and the heavens shift.

"Let us go then, you and I,"
Wend our way across the sky.

The unknown beckons
To me and you
Where green meets hues
Of gray and blue.
Infinite line: horizons new.

Misty islands ships drift past,
Clouds cut by spires of stone, steel and glass,
Cities bright in alley pools,
Magic light on windswept moors.

Prairie hills in gentle rain,
Northwood pines sun washed again,
Spring moss upon the forest floor,
A different green on the unopened door.

"Let us go then, you and I,"
Together take the road untried;
Wend our way across the sky:
A little sphere of green and blue
'Round which we dance,

Me and you.

Third weekend in July
I love canoeing out on Northwood
Lake, early morning hours melting
into the pines, as I head toward the
island where the wild blueberries
lie. Tiny morsels, abundant and packed with
the taste of summer and beepollen and freshwater
and snow. Minnows nibble my toes, each one
a solid worm for the biting, as I slowly
fill a one-gallon jug, berry by berry,
to use for breakfast pancakes and
Belgian waffles cooked golden from
the waffle iron. Some of the ripest
berries plop into the lake. I swipe
them up before bass or sunfish
see them; always leaving the
green berries behind.
Pausing to taste some, they
split between my incisors;
I marvel at the flavor
while a loon’s haunted red
eyes stare at nothing.
Blueberries split like
relationships
occasionally do,
sour at times, always
leaving a taste on your
palate. Families, young
lovers picnicking on the
beach lake, confused couples;
they branch off, moonlight
silhouetting their outlines;
silent elegy softly blossoming
downward as their paths skew.
They won’t cross again.
My jug filled, I oar
back to the dock,
ears filled with
humming of birds,
insects, boats;
brimming with
the bream from berries
splitting apart,
and the intense
silence of blueberry
picking in late July.

fascinating and most amusing parts of fashion week.

And as Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week kicks into gear in Sydney, it’s celebrities, all-important buyers and retailers, editors, stylists and a whole lot of self-anointed fashion bloggers who make the A-row cut.

The posturing and posing that goes on to secure a coveted front row seat at each and every one of the 47 shows can be hilarious.

No matter how high a heel you wear, how big your sunglasses are or how smartypants your designer blazer is, no-one gets seated front row if they can’t, literally, bring something to the style marketing table.

The main front row players are definitely editors. And buyers. Hands down.

But bloggers and digital media players have made their presence known over the last few years — with the better ones considered front row deities when it comes to seating.

Designer Kym Ellery snared the opening night slot of fashion week with the likes of Lindy Klim, Kyly Clarke, Margaret Zhang, Bambi Northwood Blyth and every magazine and style editor that mattered in the front row.

Model Gemma Ward attends the Tome show at Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week Australia 2015 sitti
(Photo:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses)
Meanwhile, Vogue, Harpers Bazaar, marieclaire, Sunday Style and Elle are the main front row magazine players.

“The Ellery front row was an impressive mix of international guests, local fashion media and buyers and Sydney celebrities,” says Vogue Australia editor-in-chief, Edwina McCann.

“It was a well dressed crowd who turned up the following morning to the first show, Tome, looking equally well turned out and ready for business.

“Gone are the days when hangovers were in fashion!”

Yup, late nights, for real fashion workers, just aren’t in fashion.

McCann says not everything that is actually ‘on trend’ ends up in the front row.

“Flat shoes are well and truly in this season, but I didn’t see many front row,” she adds.

“At Mercedes Benz Fashion Week Australia it seems heels are absolutely always on trend.”

One of the world’s leading fashion commentators says he is genuinely knocked out by the improved calibre of dressing on this year’s front row.

Godfrey Deeny from Paris (he writes for Le Figaro) hasn’t attended the Australian event in five years but was overheard commenting that the front row looks better dressed and more sophisticated than his last visit.

As far as seating the front row, there are a solid group of public relations people working with their designer clients to put together each seating plan.

One of these people is Nikki Andrews from the NAC media group, who says seating can be a game of cat and mouse.

“It is like piecing together a big jigsaw puzzle,” says Andrews.

“Each designer has different priorities with key press and key buyers and of course celebrity still the main priorities.

“There is always a juggle on the day and of course a few extras that always insist on front row.

“But it is usually those who request front row who don’t really deserve it,” smiles Andrews.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses

LS:   This place is desolate
Where darkness ***** at your pupils
And infuses your lungs with a cocktail
Of cold and despair
Amongst the mistletoe and bells ringing
You hear a quiet echo of
Isolation that has no shape
Unexplained, ever mysterious
Fearesome lack of a vital link
To hold your feet down on the plane
Familiar to countless faceless strangers
And familiar faces alike
Where willingly you could join
In a silly dance around the circle
Outlined many spiraling ages ago
And feel at ease and ONE

And to the sound of choral
I could fly up with crows
And see it all from
Unattainable
High
Up there in the milky clouds
But
Nature is so uniformally ordered and
Strange as it is no law contains
This spirit so eager to escape

WW: I hear the darkening silence echo
And drone in the northwood stillness.
The forest treetops lurching south
Into the memory of sunlight
Crowns bending unbroken,
Grasping unspoken,
To behold the waning daylight

While the spell of darkness cast deprives,
It opens up the craving soul

This is the naked truth,
This is the light
Oozing from graying monotone
Spilling from cracks between the pause,
Betwixt the shapeless lines of poetry’s refrain …

For life is not a work of art,
The colour a fleeting moment cannot last
And the paradise of going somewhere else
Still so far away

wildish

I carry the runes of you in my pocket
Smoothed while recalling
Your blank walks

A wash of blackcurrant and
Holly in your hair

Wandering aimless by shorn clapboard
and storm kestrels overhead.

I think of your eyes
While watching Venus blink,
Tiny speck of green popping

Out of the witching hour’s emptiness

Distracted by a sweet orb only daring to show itself
in time-lapse Morse code-

City firefly’s shy hesitant glow
of phosphorescent luciferase
Impermanent tattoos in the humid air

Asphyxiated by the hum
of flowing electrons by wayward wings
Vintage and neon.

I sweep your edda into the hearth
Ashen mingling of myrrh
and incense sprinkles its cinnamon

Onto bare exposed brick.

The lightning-scarred tree
with its bullseye of char
Burned inside-out,
Cindered base,
Reminds me of our concatenated dreams.

I touch the ghost of you
Roaming the paths of King’s Chapel
and Granary Burial Ground

Farsick and windtalking to yourself.

I still taste the ozone on your lips
After you rained all night.

I throw the bait of you into the water
and the sunfish of Northwood Lake nibble the worms
of your toes.

And I watch the sawing motion of your thoughts
on DVR over and over
Hearing the fibers tear

Knowing the damage of blades and friction

How your heart will always bear
All ninety stone
of Hunters Lodge.