Changing patterns:

Moisture on the glass,

frost on the grass

and smoke on the breath —

when I was young, feet

in the sub-zero morning

left footprints upon the lawn

 and my hands ached with the cold.

There was the time we found the sheet,

abandoned on the line overnight,

hard as cardboard —

mum gave it a whack with the wrong end

of a broom, the ice fell off

in a sudden burst of laughter.

Buses came late in winter,

pies were too hot at school

and in the afternoon, frozen,

I’d sit before the old briquette heater

hurriedly splicing kindling,

scrunching the newspaper, setting the fire to burn.

Now weather patterns are tamed

except in catastrophes, some days are summer,

then winter and back again;

plants bloom, turn to seed and flower over

as rain sweeps across, disappears

for weeks into months

and comes in flood

like an old man who forgets everything

until he remembers in a torrent of words.

We have caused the world to over-compensate,

I can see it in my garden —

everything adopts a haphazard approach,

falls in despair

then sprouts again with hope;

in the soil, worms gather, witches

around a cauldron, know no matter

the magic they weave

they cannot bring the time that was back.

Relentless weather:

Clouds gather, curious cows

push to the front…in the grey,

bright bursts of lightning,

father’s unexpected rage;

each anticipated and surprising.

Thunder stuck within the count;

each bared arm’s hair

mimicked a preying mantis;

rain fell…washer-women

dumped water on broken soil:

The garden,

that had wilted

suddenly found a jig,

leaf and twig

click their green heels…

a grave day survived.

Fallen fruit draws wasps,

lettuce quickly flowers,

tomatoes rot…

yet all will seed

for the sake of future possibility.

Garden construction:

The soil tilled, watered,

made fertile; each clump

a mouth waiting to be fed.

seeds scattered by hand

into the striving green dreams

of what they might become.

Structures decided upon, the where

and when; Goddess moon guides

from a sympathetic distance.

Stakes and strings wait,

tiny tendrils, like fingers,

clasp and lift towards the sun.

Come harvest, the poem

is spread before alert eyes

for readers to feast or shun.

wise little prophets:

The tree expects bananas,

the bulge at the crown

proudly born as any wife in her

yellow chiffon, maternity gown.

I didn’t but there they hang,

a quartet of proofs

that the climate has changed.

This is Melbourne

tropical fruit does not grow

this far below the imaginary line

yet they are there still,

each a yellow smile,

a grin at man;

as the tongue-shaped

banana leaves whisper,

“I’ll be here long after
you’ve been and gone mister.”

next year, perhaps...

The apricots were bursting,

the tree, in its second year, bowed,

as if the gods were passing,

under the weight of tiny gold and orange suns —

the expanding universe fathomed

in the corner of a suburban backyard.

Then rain came, unseasonal, violent;

my watering mouth dried

as I watched those golden orbs

suffer in the rain, their bright fires

extinguished and they fell

one by one, rotting and useless…

This is how the universe ends —

with stars falling
into the rich loam of missed opportunities.

before too long:

Today I cut five zucchinis

off the plant before they grew too large,

I still had three in the fridge

so I placed the five

in a crisp, white plastic bag,

delivered them washed and still wet

to my neighbour on the right —

it is best to pick zucchini small

otherwise they pillage all goodness
and lose their succulent edge.

Time travel in the garden, by the compost:

In this slice of soil,

balanced in the spade

held near its blade

by my right hand,

tiny worms wriggle;

vampires exposed to light.

The dirt is moist

wood broken down, leaves and refuse too,

everything decomposed, made new;

ready for the seed to find sympathy with the moon,

shatter the shell, let loose a tendril,

open two petals; solar panels

long before we built a road or a city.

This afternoon, as the sun

hung so low the edge of the world

caught fire, I fill

two large pots; ready

for two olive trees.

I can taste the sea already and imagine

ancient Greece, goat’s cheese

and baked bread; the warrior

on his haunches chews

and swallows before the walls of Troy.

Greek and Trojan bodies

become soil, end differences

unassailable when they breathed.

Worms come to feast;

hidden in the dark

until the spade slides through years

and in my back-yard they wriggle;

I can taste the fruit
before the trees have been planted.

second go at the poem - edit 30/11/2017

there are some places from which there is no coming back

I stood, hose in hand,

water pushing out the bronze nozzle,

catches the sunlight, sparkles,

a tail of hope; leaves that should

have been green and gently serrated,

instead bronzed and curled.

Crowning each branch, petals

that had never opened, defeated;

limp and browned, like hats

fallen over faces that frowned, forever

swallowing what colour

might have been presented.

Everything clutched inwards,

shrunken by the search for shadows

where none existed; on the burnt ground,

around its defeated trunk, leaves shed

before their time; each a story to tell,

each the same tale, defeat ruins everyone.