December 23, 2011


Johanna 1                                                                                           15/12/11

I stand upon the brink of these southern seas,

in view the rushing white, and bright aquamarine.

The beautiful chaos, the unknown of old,

fatefully claiming explorers too bold.

I stand upon this rugged southernmost shore,

which plagues the imaginary of those gone before.

The rumbling waters, the warm wind hums her riff,

spritely scaling each lofty sandstone cliff.

Johanna 2                                                                                          15/12/11

Dad called him Joe, that little tan dog.

He welcomed us both, wandering up to our camp,

he smiled brightly, the soft breeze ruffling his fur.

Transients we were, but for he this was home, from

the rushing of the waves, to the crisp air on the

sloping hillside. Contented, he lay about the reserve

yet wandered free at will.

Let to ponder, we suspected a life for Joe both filled

with joy, and at once swept with swells of melancholy.

As friends came and formed a temporal place of refuge,

a site upon which old Joe found communion with creatures

of heart. Still, on those evenings cold and grey, when the brutal

gale raged through the vale from the west, when the warmth of

a hand, and the sweet meats contingent upon the human

encampment were long gone – Joe lay alone,

in a dark hollow in the coastal scrub.

He was himself intrinsicly intimate with the space,

inseparable was Joe from the Sheoaks, whispering

tales of folks from times gone by. To the balding heights

Joe belonged, and his was each tuft of grass upon the


To speak of Joe was to reference Johanna, for he was

a life form elemental to the region. He shifted freely

in a territory uniquely his; characterising place

as the wind shapes the cliff face, and the melody

of the wren is woven into the air, as the people come

and soon have gone – it was all one.

Johanna 3                                                                                          15/12/11

We respond.

Golden now, the grass over the dunes shimmers,

alive in the gentle breath exhaled upon the land.

The waves, they do not stop – we relish in what

is an unmitigable constant, beyond the force of our


It is a fare we watch, sink in the sky – slowly first,

before the sudden passing of the earth into shadow.

It is a corposant above the structures of the world,

from this vessel we set our eyes on that light in

fear and wonder.

Now darkened, the land runs vague in our minds.

Dusk is ever the end, the plunge beyond the known,

it resonates in the deep of our dislocated forms, ever

thrown back and forth on the sea of comparison,

strong, yet weak, large and still so insignificant.

We respond.

For breath – it is not ours, what is within us

is around us. We are the earth, and the waters

hold within us, and the air it is that shifts us.

Waters writhe before us, waters roll above us,

the breeze bears within the slighter, salene


The waves thunder as my blood, as my mother’s

heartbeat, as my father’s spirit.

Ever time evades, a moment gone, it slips

so fast, we cannot grasp it.

We breathe the wind, we cry the sea, our complex

structures return to dirt.

And soon enough I shall not sit here, soon five hundred

years shall I have slept in the heart of the earth,

whilst my spirit sings with the perpetual dawn –

for ever the sun is rising on the world, and

ever passing around the world is the

morning song.

Let that be my song. As night rests upon me I await

the first melody, echoing in the woods, brought on wing

across the sheer cliff tops. Messengers of the skies sing

to us a new day. We are created anew,

we rise into being once more.

Johanna 4                                                                                            16/12/11

Paths we form – creatures who clear a way;

linear, familiar.

Mild morning light reveals one way in the

hillside, a track roughly hewn in earth and

rock. Now wings waver, bodies gliding

through space; the graceful, sweeping

flight of the black cockatoo, to the speedy,

darting of the splendid fairy wren.

No path is made, their way is limitless,

passengers of the upper strata of

our world.

Yet, here below, we own and possess, crafting

lines, borders, encapsulating space; dividing,


The Goldfinch lands briefly on the fence –

to him no more than a moments respite; no modes

of restraint, no means to orient.

The sun now breaks through in the east,

the dunes are lit and the sea cast gold. Upon the

sand our paths erased, the canvas cleared,

and I dare not descend from these heights and

impress upon the shore my own way.

For the sea has renewed; let that which was been

reclaimed beyond our touch remain for but a



I wonder if you sit by choice. Why do you not choose to fly?
The skys are your domain, high you will rise,
to gaze down on the earth below.
Little Thrush, it will take courage, to leap forth,
to spread your winds and break free.
Yet, move you do not.
Are you idle, refusing to rise and meet the challnge that awaits you?
You must take up your lot to become what you must,
or forever you will scamper from shrub to shrub, hiding from the world.
Are you caught there, paralysed and unable to escape?
For your breast heaves with fear as ou remain there alone.
Perhaps all you need is a gentle nudge, or so you would think,
a friend to guide you our of your labrynth of uncertainty.
However, this is but your first challenge,
and your character shall be defined by your willingness to set yourself free.

July 27, 2011

Ode to Warrenbayne

Ever onward goes the rushing river
Rising up to meet the sun, so golden
Gliding down it carves the valley open.
Young feet dare cool places; gasp and shiver,
Bold explorers caught in loves bright fever
Traipse the sandy bed until thereupon
Is found a spot where light emboldens
Swimming, sitting, currents fall soft silver –
Hand in hand they chase a brave endeavour

*                      *                      *

And O here grow the years, flow the tears as
Those near and dear go, then fear does follow.
And no desired clear light, so sheer and bright
Will glow ere, night shadows fright mere
Mortals, yet cheers slow fight will win I know

September 2, 2010

Ode to the Yarra

Now here beside us river’s voice compounds,

My mind now sees the real; it is absurd,

For many folk your song have never heard.

And it would seem that soothing sights and sounds

Most dismally are ‘ere long now unfound.

Yet nigh to nature youth here have wandered,

Beauteous place where young folk have pondered,

And only here does such freedom abound.

Hidden – night lays on our restful vale,

Safely sister slumbers sailing streams song.

Lamp glows steadily, peace grows verily,

And lo! Western wonts are an ill, I know;

Ample flows, but greedily goes our thirst.

Sitting in the Shade

November 2, 2009

The hidden river moves

Somewhere I know

Children all believe

Mothers say they know

Sorry we got lost

I liked the forest when we first arrived.

We sit under shady arbors

safe and unsafe

we wander through the wood

climbing, we fall

again again again again;

the puzzle mystifies.

On A Humid Evening

October 30, 2009

the sky


once, twice, and again;

a muted display.

The night is electric.


Clammy hands fumble,

the glass drawn back and

the air is thick.


The gaping hole welcomes

multitudes, their sirens ringing

as they gather to the warm,

yellow light.


A blocade must be affixed;

the dilapidated flyscreen

holds with bluetack and hope.


Aggravated, a spider skulks off

into a dark corner.


Water gushes across the

heavens, a reverberating bass;

an amplified down pipe.



The neighbourhood is well disturbed;


Then waters fall, gushing

and pouring from above.


A break.

The air cools momentarily before

the weight returns, and its time

to rest, while the cycle repeats.


the sky


once, twice, and again;

a muted display.

The night is electric.


June 9, 2009

spiraling, singing, screaming;

the storm mounts

her chorus in beautiful chaos

rising and falling; I wait

for those heights once


ripping through treetops

she flies, unassailable,


that unreckonable force

shaking my foundations