Thursday, 19 December 2019

Spanish Rock

One day to lay down
be a passive rock
in time
allow moss to explore
and cling - a beard of sorts.

Tiny moss hands
find holds
in crevices and thoughts
secrets into dreams.

One day in time
to soak up eternal sunshine
like the rock
heat penetrates
blocks the doubt.

To find the silent song
so strong
all ears can hear
and decide
to pay it no heed.

One day to be a wall
a spine, a gated arch where hands
your hands
might linger, touch, remember
the fields once rested in.

Lulu bookstore

Tuesday, 24 September 2019


There are these spaces,
gaps, like branches,
with mouths that whisper
and scratch at our sacred dreams.

Leaves emerge from branches
at the disappearing point –
magic in the moment
different from the image at large.

Memories are travellers,
inhabit our gaps,
pretend an existence
lost in the space folds of time.

I carry the weight of fallen leaves
feel the heat of their decrease,
disdain the way they catch and hold
all liquid regrets.

I remember footsteps,
sunshine and a million oak leaves –
yellow and red stars fallen, cold,
crying out for a Spring long since past.

Sunday, 18 August 2019


He stands, right hand holds the shaft
of a spear – solid as a tree rooted in dirt –
left foot
communes with his right knee, he
stares out across unfolded years,
searches for the home
lost beneath the brutal feet of sheep and cows.

She sits beside the meandering river
her feet – weathered by sand and sun –
mind full of white-water churnings, she
stares deep into the days
before she was removed,
brought to this station of cattle and blowflies.

They once came and parted like the waves,
stood silent – eyes shining, opals of the land –
or sang together;
before strangers came, they
shared food and painted sacred sites,
strangers changed everything
with disease and lies.

Now the young
begin to gather – celebrate in smoke and paint –
find their memories,
their wisdom unearthed by feet thumping land, they
fight the tyranny of histories
written on the bones
of their displaced ancestors.

Thursday, 15 August 2019

A white man dreaming while sitting on his front porch:

Rivers snake across the ground
as sun catches the water, scales reflect,
sear the eye; behind the closed lids
footprints of luminous red sand,
above the curved tin roof, hidden by day
stars the same and different, known figures
turned upside down, scrutinize.

From the branded and beloved familiar,
plants transplanted into mulched soil,
blue cottage flowers sway, fruit trees, fruit flies,
bruised, fallen rose petals, the quiet suckle of aphid –  
loaded shotgun demands attention, hungry
for twitch of rabbit and fox – if you have to kill
better it’s the carcass of an animal you comprehend.

Wednesday, 7 August 2019

The stone people:

This land is made of stones,
stones along its shores
washed by the ocean, stones
that listen to the waves,
that cry with the gulls
and understand the journey of sand.

Stones guarding the mountains,
stones playing in the fields,
large stones with white swirls,
small grey stones;
even the heart of the Land is a stone,
the greatest stone of all, it pulses
from sunrise to sunset,
a red stone that shares the land with all.

The stones of this land are alive,
Understand the serpent
that is river winding beside them,
stretch with the tree and grass,
run with roo and emu;
this Land’s stones breath and feel.

This land is so old the stones
have learnt to be, formed a lasting friendship
with the people of the land,
with the animals also.
The stones of this land have heard the songs
and learnt to sing,
a deep beautiful stone voice
that weaves peace into everything.

The people who came to this land
in wooden ships
and canvas sails,
who came with cotton and wool,
with steel and wheat,
did not pause to listen to the stones.

The new people who came across the sea,
proud in their accomplishments
ignored even the greatest stone of all,
treated it as a sideshow.

The people who came
could not hear
for in their chests they carried
their own small stones.

Those stones,
so recently arrived,
had not yet learned to hear
and were unable to feel.

The stones of this Land
sing still,
hope with the Land
that the people with stones in their chests
will one day hear
and learn to understand.

Tuesday, 6 August 2019

crazy white fella

Time was
Time changed

A slow drift of embers
Changed into a yellow ant fire –
Repeated scurry
Crazy hunger to locate
The next source of dinner

Time was
Time to return

Loop back – a river’s meander
To send the ants back to their homeland,
Leave this land free
Of their greed and hunger.

Time was
Time is

Never to return,
The meandering river hoops too far
Turns into the billabong;
A circle that does not flow.
A slow decay.

Sixty-five thousand years of time
Two hundred and thirty-one years of time

Crazy white fella time,
The rush towards
Never the pause to look around;
A clutch
Never to unfold.