watched it brim pink and red
and joyous in your colours
no more of flesh but spirit
CITY
restless and tall
Gumpa bent his back against the wind
until it bent him
back and back and away
from the shivering fields of grain
and golden trees of fruit
to the city
southern
perpetual
in his pictures the mop of untamed hair
eyes unruly too
unmistakeable
the wildness within
shotguns late-night trips
across the border
with the demon rye
liquor comes from cupboards now
small comfort
to a ruined body
hair still unruly
kicking screaming
until the city finally fades
to the fields
GAMEBRIDGE
Even in old age
Alice Maude dreamed
of horses racing horses
low in the sulky
crouched skirts flying
tickling the bay mare's haunches
with the whip
faster past farmer's nags she dreamed
to the narrow stone bridge
wheels glancing off wheels
horses foaming wild with the race
flying crashing wheel over wheel
hurtling toward chaos
chaos on the brain now
galloping away over the barren lake ice
clutching at the sides of the cutter
eyes narrowed
searching for the landing
invisible in the snow but never lost
GNARLY BONES
each piece of fabric
cut by your gnarled hands
once meant something more
these coats and pants and dresses
worked hard in the fields
in the kitchens
now repeat themselves
on bedspreads endlessly
like you
muttering from your chair
your gnarly bones
cutting and cutting away
at the fruits of your labours
BAPTISM
down the lake when father
took the evening horses
into the gentle lapping
they thrashed and foamed
away all traces
left no plough no mark
left gleaming
from the water
of their daily baptism
lay me down in that distant shallow
feel the water run and run
over me like years
wash away again the traces
of this hard-scraped dirt
baked by moons of sorrow
here as a child I am
I hear the wildflowers hum
SIX MONTHS OF PLENTY
only your grandmother's grandmother remembers
those Irish hedgerows
replaced by stump fences
fields of stone
all yours
in the spice-hot summer
those old tubers
sprouted fine potatoes
and hearty children
without hunger
six months into the land of plenty
before crusty water on the morning pails
frozen breath hanging dark in the halls
timber wolves baying
outside your winter doors
THUNDERWOOD FARM
in the colours of dusk I see you
coming across the field
I hear your feet on the path as it winds
you hold out your hands
they are the shade of age
the texture of my dreams
of thunder and wood
the winter haze rising
again and against the shore
against the piles of ruined ice
tumbled and cold
as the stones of Thunderwood
as a scrap of black muslin
beckoning me
towards the pit of our ancestors
OLD REBEL YELL
day by day
she carried her musty face
perched on top of
a brittle bird body
her sunken cheeks rose powdered
mutter outside the windows
her bony fingers
walk through all the trash
only on the inside
of her canary head
does she scream
through darting eyes
at everything unwanted
at their gapes and stares
no admiration
for an old rebel yell
EPITAPH: CHALK ON LIMESTONE
your memories are written in limestone
in fields of rock and scrub
in pastures of green sun
in a brown girl running
you are remembered
on verandah nights
in the breeze and smooth
in the scrape of crickets
and when all the carved words
have fallen into chalk
under the marching moss
your story will still be written
your story