Some poems.

GIFT CHILD

I remember the golden ash in autumn sun
As I walked home, day’s work done.
The sombre yew and the mulberry
And my child waiting in the lane for me.

I remember the orchard’s browning leaves
And beyond, the folding hills.
Crisp air preparing for a frost,
Sound of footsteps running at last.

I remember the rushing orange coat
Bracing for the trusting leap.
My worries melting in her eyes,
My world at one, my child to keep.

DIRT TO DIG IN
A pretty suburban garden in the better part of town
Where two-child houses greedily cover the ground.
Garages like service stations, not a tool askew
Varnished front doors immaculately new

Serried ranks of flowers raised in squared off beds
Edged with treated concave timber and soldier-like pegs.
Daisy-less green carpets set off by charcoal tile
Glossy white chairs for lounging Mediterranean style.

Oh for a wasteland behind a sagging shed,
A place for grass to flower and hide a hedgehog bed
Heaped leaves and rough earth for the dog to dig in
Curls of netting, wood off-cuts and corrugated iron.


FLYING VISIT.

Before they came, contentment ruled my life.
I’d long since shelved the bond to my old home.
They kindled memories of childhood in our grimy northern town,
Talking, drinking, laughing long into the night,
On sparks that eddied from long dormant ashes.
Releasing tears of joy and laughter. Then they flew away.
Left behind a restive mind and heart of lead.
As the ashes settle and grow cold again,
As days pass and routine takes hold again,
My heart will rise and warm once more
To this place I’ve chosen to remain.

SHIFTING

They were spindly and less than waist high
When I dug them into sheltered Southland soil,
Where I nurtured their struggles to hold the earth.
Until their limbs unfolded and stretched to poke the sky
And I gazed in proud, approving wonder as decades went quietly by.
To this spring evening that’s nearly done,
Strolling, palming the rough bark in the fading sun.
By dawn tomorrow I’ll be gone,
Changing someone else’s cherished patch,
Wondering if my trees will feel the new owner’s axe.


VOICES

Winding lane of softly waving green
Careful pathways curl to find
Red brick islands neat and clean
Home for the sad and sick of mind

He waves from an outside chair
Old man’s feet uneasy on the ground
Unwinding with cat-like care
Softly slippered whispers sound

Hi dad, says this son of mine
A boy not yet twenty-one
I’m okay, dad, I’m really doing fine
The voices have almost gone


A Surprising Event.

My head and heart join in awe
To see a moon not seen before.
Mountains undressing.
Sun on the river glinting and gliding.
To see fat buds green after rain.
To feel that heart-leap seeing Spring again.
But it’s not the birds or the moon or sunrise,
It’s that every year, year after year,
It’s still a surprise.