Writing

Spring (like grief) is

something to sit in

let it sprout around you

The birds are busy now.

Forty minutes on low

means the warming beer can come swinging

down towards the water

down the road where the gum sings wind-songs

Mother breakfast egg breaks

Mother breast and legs ache

O Mother lake

O Father tide

When I (in love)

bought the 2 bunches

of English Spinach

2 for $3

The morning says ‘be with me’-

I mean the morning with a face-

and a call-

fresh throat bird music

you are a landscape

held together by green

tied lemons and lavenders

rust smooth stones

Don’t come thin

Don’t come wanting, or starved

Come dripping with pollen of your neighbour’s heavy branches

Celestial dandruff over your oat skin

Fingertips of trees flicker

light dark light

as underwater weeds

neath surf surge

Some bodies are seabodys

and some are not

Brown bodies are seabodys

lean and round,

The maskless sea

still slick free

wintering the weed, and grief and me.

Glitter therapy

I want to say hello to who you are

I want to be there in the strange unravelling of childhood

At breakfast I want to pour milk for you

and ask what are you hungry for?

I walk my grief in the early

in the dark

I take it to the trees whose

leaves have deserted

Dawn like

Compost; nutrient

Rich wet

Life swallowing death

I'm a holy house

swept clean by troubles

lent on and wooden

and freckled

There are times (like these)

I use songs to breathe

where my knees

would leave

My son a ceaseless being

rolling like seaweed inside me

My son a jutting root, a problem, a percent,

A scale on the quality of life

Wedged between

heads that bled

down my pelvis

There were four in the bed

My mind is wide

A costco of nothing

Cotton wool underwear and how to use the most amount of nappies while getting the most amount of sleep.

The grey breezy bit before night

has got me low-nly

The husbandness of life,

the motherness and workness

Salt foam

Himalayan rock and roll

Surf-milk thickening

Surrounds

Far flung

flowers

lit from within

in the kindest morning sun.

Symmetry may have its appeal, but is inherently stale.

Some kind of imbalance is behind every transformation.

Marcelo Gleiser, astrophysicist

Hibiscus: vital, clear

Love me. Loud bright

Immediate

Stamen straight

Palm up turning

flat to sky

why is that the way

to test for rain?

My curls twirl above

like a mobile made just for you

I dance, I shake those hips that passed you

just for a dip

I have doona doubts of God

I'd rather be warm than

press my face toward the furnace of First

furthest

The sea and me

looked back at a tree

and said how do you stand so still?

Kick the dirt off those roots

Once I held myself together

as the dying rose will do

immaculate immediate

clenched against the way of things

Thin strip of winter sun

that lines my life with light

a cigarette of bright and melting.

Frozen in the heat til

The act of slow

we talk about as though

some invention

new tradition.

The moment lost

the after if the lit up

sunset sky

trades its gown for rags

Routiners know each other

hardline list followers

morning beach walkers

Thursday night thai takeawayers

Salt sea crusted window

loaded frost of warmest

early evening tide.

Friends familiar coming

Heaven quiet

mountains majestic made conquer the sky.

Stand tall trees align,

a straight state

We, the magnolia tree

in winter walls white,

and deep:

BLOOM

At evenings top

we sit and watch

the fences built

around

Inside I'm all a liquid,

a lapping and a listless sea,

and if you are to listen near

I'll wager this is what you'll likely hear:

A slip of a bird just whistled at me

from high in an old oak tree,

came from high as the city

as brave as a sailor