July

 

“wye july haiku”

 

*of droplet thread rising stream

waterfall

off leaf stone ledge fern frond pool

 

*fire stump frills brief rainbow

rosella

and another on seed hunt

 

*renaissance earplug drops of

spotify

daybreak’s mist trickling window

 

*kindling powder redgum dust

fireplace

morning’s level playing field

 

*corrugated ripples ring

water tank

wherein deep waters run still

 

*white smoke drifts above gully

rainwater

reflects on decking glistens

 

*smoothest mud wettest leaf where

echidna

spiralled a ball of a time

 

*curvy cloudy sky tingling

eucalypts

claw boulder underground creak

 

*gravel grip vehicle climbs

boulevarde

then again birdcall silence

 

*bolstered balustraded bold

weekenders

pop corks watch screens have a doze

 

*green neck torsion straightened

king parrot

black claw precision ambles

 

*treetop crests waving miles meet

horizon

permanent marker sea line

 

*cold elongated grassy

watercourse

old unsung storm-drain the sea

 

*dropdown seaviews wildweeds up

no-through-road

chorus raucous cockatoos

 

*water everywhere high tide

erosion

bark hangings drip from branches

 

*guttering froth blowholes gasp

salt water

returns thunder against reef

 

*uncontained sky white grey blue

container

uncontained sea grey blue green

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gunzel (July)

Morning promises a journey of a thousand miles. We are all gunzels, out early to discover old sleepers. They explain the way, their predictable steps set into places otherwise wilderness. While everyone else is looking the other way, we are riveted on rivetings. We use old lines, not caring if they have flimsy joins, or end up in a lake. Our minds are rail yards of constant excitement. They relish underground thoughts. Even wintry July deters not the true gunzel. Come evening we switch on the home entertainment unit, to bliss out at endless freight carriages passing before our eyes.

Eclipse (July)

At 2:15am July 28^th the garden path is white with full moon. I return to sleep. Sky is satin from light. Sometime I reawaken and it’s there, though my window, SSW over Heidelberg. The moon has dimmed, resembles a discoloured penny, date worn away. I must look to notice it. Everyone’s up at daybreak. Bridie had set her alarm for 5:15am. She’d gone out in her hoodie to draw it in her sketchbook. Coppery, she called the moon. I said: Not very red for a blood moon and behind clouds, mostly. She replied: Perhaps it was bloodiest behind the clouds.

Artwork (July)

In my dream a work of art was given a name by one person, so that until another person gave the artwork a name, that person was the maker of the artwork. A book was open before the artwork, where each person wrote their name and their title for the artwork. “‘Handle With Care’ by Madeleine Q. May-June 1880.” “Twilight at Eaglemont’ by Thomas R. July-November 1880.’ &c. The artwork was an object, a large pie that never perished. It looked as though made of stone but, on closer inspection, was clearly organic. What kind of pie remains a mystery.

Motion (July)

The agitations of the cat, motes floating through lamplight, the riffles through tall trees outside, the clouds in and out past an enlarged moon, definite sound of a plane, everything in motion that is not at rest may or may not come to attention in real time during a quiet July night with the clock moving past eight-thirty. Next morning, motionless mist in sunlight over eastern suburbs, but up on Heidelberg commuters walk briskly to their chosen door, buttoning up against a cold start, or coffees jostling. The acrobatics of the gravel bobcat, the birds diving upward into tall trees…

Crime (July)

Letter :“Sir, It’s not surprising that crime novels are the most borrowed books in Australian libraries (‘The Age’, July 24) when that’s about all that’s on offer. Last week I visited our local library to find aisles of fiction and glossy magazines and just one small aisle of non-fiction. Our public libraries have been stripped of books that inform, enlighten, and broaden our minds. What happened to the library’s purpose of showing us the world? Is it any wonder Australians have so little knowledge of their own history and culture when all they’re being given is trash crime? Philip Harvey.”