“Once, twice, three times”
palpable glee in the auctioneer’s voice,
“are we done?”
a pause, even a beat,
you can hear people breathing, shuffling
“going, going …
SOLD to the lady in blue!”

And so a home stripped of intimacy,
styled into an invitation to dream
changes hands …

Your heart is racing,
tears of relief spring into your eyes,
a champagne cork pops,
the intoxicating scent of bubbles
tickle your nose,
a sip of frothy blue
and yellow visions
of playful waves and sand.

Now the house in P_____ St is no more,
the site’s completely cleared,
you wonder why you worked so hard
just before the keys were handed over
to leave no trace behind.

Horizons beckon untrammelled
from a new place
where it’s easy to breath.





Ripples and tears

Thin ridges
are spots  in the detail,
a plane of matter
and space.

Plays of light
vast surfaces stretch and compress,
thin places with slight tears fray,
bursting apart in
the points between
voids (not vacuums),
where life floats
braided in moving stillness.

Somewhere, softly,
a tear duct
lets out a thin trickle.

A ridge ripples,
vibrating upheavals
settle into new attractions
yet to be known.



January 23

doves coo
noisy miners gather
a seed pod drops


piping syringes
a breathing sea
I walk with a stick
wet lines in the sand


they come to look
a commotion of miners
a cat slinks away
humid hot night
even the air’s
too lazy to move

Smoke Rings

the singer’s voice
smoke and whiskey rich
sings about oppression

the guitarist’s fingers strum
salutations to the condors
tatooed on his chest

a chorus of three voices joins
dead friends immortalised
the singer lights a cigarette

inside his smoke rings
cochineal red betrayals
a requiem inside each circle