Old Suburb

I recognise every crack in the footpath
The houses once real and coloured
now like old photographs

I tremble

The ghosts lie inside
I walk faster in case the past grabs me
and pulls me into it's sickly trap

The old widows (those that are left)
sit on their porches to catch the breeze
that eddies down the street
They remember me

I hurry away

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Telegraph Point

Blazed dark on the white wood
the name revives me from the city's stupor
For the weeds have known us both
and the grey road has grown a beard

Where my father and I woke to the gum tree dawn
and the smell of the wet road
We strolled beside the highway to the rattling bridge
that lived in the mist

You tucked your secrets in my bag of dreams as I slept
I still dream of the campfire's scent
where the bending road meets the river

Waking Child

As you murmur in waking
All you see is not mine to know
Feeling with living hands
for the edge of your world
As you once searched
for the blinding light of birth

With each waking second
your world grows
With every breath
your universe expands

My selfish heart waits
to capture your future
to know your plan
And every sound you make
will be mine to learn
but never understand

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Broadmeadow Station

Broken glass

scattered in the subway

grit glitters

like jewels in the concrete floor

thick with grime and grease

of a thousand footsteps

A  coal train rumbles overhead

I hear it all the way to Gunnedah

People wait

and wait

for loved ones on the Sydney train

Dropped torn tickets

kisses, hugs

Walk out laughing

Arm in arm

Embraces

The platform once more deserted

I walk alone through the subway

Kicking newspaper

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Voice from the City

I know a place

where a warm wood stove

melts the chill of the morning air

The pungent smell of green leaves burning

fills my nostrils

and the Sun takes up her miraculous brush

The Blue Range

The solace I seek is so near

as I gaze to the blue range

It waits

Beckoning me

to the finality of its embrace

But I grow afraid

and run back

from the honesty

of stone and forest

like a suckling child

to the warm breast of humanity

My tears

reflect your horizon

as you watch my foolish game

My anger

echoes like an insane wind through your gorges

My frustration

rings hollow from indifferent stone

But this means nothing to you

Lying ancient and unconcerned

under your robe of forest

Concealing eternity

Answering no one

Your closeness haunts me

but your peace is denied me

I reach out

to touch your serenity

and feel only the empty breeze

Cringing on the bare hillside

I look inward

and outward again

and see nothing

but the blue range

The setting sun lines every spur with gold

Beauty envelopes me

and I cower under its purple shadow

Thora

Oct 1983

Prayer 

Let me run

through the darkness

to the burning light

the golden sun

to warm my soul

and melt my thought

to nothing

I will lie clean

against the plate of the brown earth

The sky will show me wisdom

The stone to hold my heart

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