Birds

The gulls circle wildly above
their white feathers
flashing against the impenetrable blue of the lake
a dervish dance
a shrieking, skirling herald of joy
I am enchanted by their spirit
their daring to be so free
their pure expression of life

Mountainside Brides

Scorned Brides of the Mountainside

The mist came rolling in

And we knew

The brides had come to stay.

Wounded women

Diaphanous and transient

Creeping through the fern trees

The veiled brides of the mountainside

They lay low

Biding their time

Seven sisters they were

Some widowed, some spurned

They have come here

To mourn their beloveds,

To make a funeralsite of the mountainside,

To lay ruin to their dreams

Bereaved and betrayed

They lie hysterical across the mountainside

Fawning, fainting

Arching their backs

In physical catastrophe

Heavy with despair

They breathe their darkness

And dormant bitterness

And heave sighs from the sky

They are the mist that clings to the trees

And rises perniciously from the valley

They are the biting wind that howls

The eldest

The stoic spurned

Long ago jilted,

Crawls through the crags

And sequesters in a dank crevice

Like some troll or beast

Plotting her revenge

For one thousand bitter years

The youngest sister

Newly widowed

Weeps soft secret tears

Bereaved for her passed love

Decomposing

She has carried his corpse to this funeral site

And makes a rite of his scattered bones

She will lay with them once more.

She cuts off her golden locks

Weaves them through his hair to create a wreath

They scatter their rings

The sisters, seven

Their golden jewels they leave to the mountainside

Feeding the darkness, the mould,

The growing hunger of the damp

It clings to the rocks as moss

Fertile in its distress

They weave their dresses,

Their white veils

And laced matrimonial finery

Through the trees

Decorating the mountainside

With morbid mist

But they wont stay long

A winter’s season

Or a cold spring morning

They’ll continue to walk

Barefoot and baleful

To haunt another valley

To occupy another mountainside

With malignant mist

Mary's Trees 2

Thirteen bottlebrushes

Righteous women

Broad and plentiful

In garments of feathers

Brown and green

Adorned with 

Deep bright red jewels

These wise women

Gather in a sacred circle

Sharing revered counsel

Mary's Trees 1

Fern green

With a coffee gold

And eucalypt silver

Dappled through 

Growing fertile and dank

From a burnt

Charcoal black stump

Spring # 6

spring is for weariness
for feeling frayed around the edges
for splitting my seams
and arching my back

moments

morning

clutching at my scarf
around my bare neck
I walked through the 
6 o clock softness

I could see the morning
sharpening around me

angles, acuity, awakening

afternoon

nature, thick and intricate
folds and unfolds around me
in a bower
I think about
this woman
how her rosy cheeks
lay me bare
my rib cage aches and
expands
with warm desire
and the trees on the terrace
seem to grip at my skin

evening

rain drips sporadically
thunderously loud
wrenching sleep from my fitful mind
and heavy body
promising a weary day tomorrow

I am tired
I creak and groan
I need something fresh
it is slow, subtle torture

Sea Monsters

There is a darkness to the ocean tonight
a heavy purple grey
as I walk along the shoreline
water swells around my ankles
and salt wind whips at my cheeks
with a fierce cold

I have come here tonight
in search of abandoned treasures

Above me soars a mighty albatross
a massive creature of the sea and sky
thundering through blue
and calling out in
shrill desire
when he stretches his wings
in a graceful trajectory
the span of his reach blocks the sun
and bathes me in shadow.

There is a darkness to the ocean tonight

Here, along this grey estuary is where grand things
Dilapidate and drift
Here is where we receive regal ruins
Of the fearsome sea

Something chthonic
has submerged
and sprawled upon the shore
dismantled itself
and scattered its organs upon the estuary

We clamber over his body
a heaving, hursuit mass
his face
shrouded in seaweed
like a veiled bride

An old king has come to this place to die
his weary majesty
lies at my feet, rotting.
I can smell it