The two of us stood in this place on countless occasions,
as you talked to me about so many unimportant topics.
I listened to your words, not because I cared for them;
I listened to your talk because I knew the hunger for your flesh and blood would be satisfied soon enough.
The way you looked at, “the big old elegant green one
with unkempt hair like mine” was a woman’s talk to me, yet it never moved me.
I think of you, and I play your mannerisms, your face,
your voice, your speech; I play them over and over in my mind so that I will never forget.
The riverside willow of you. The unkempt hair that hung
around your beautiful face, like the weeping willow branches hang down into the river, is all I have left of you.
I realised too late that your time with me here in this
place was more important than only the hunger, which is all I knew, for your flesh and your blood.
Your flesh and your blood was my desire for you, yet
your words, your actions, your love, and you, the unkempt hair you, was the reason for my hunger.
I watch you walk into the room;
you are a beautiful masquerade.
A confident air hangs around you,
for you have never known “No”.
I watch you stand and sit so well,
then give me a look of disgust.
The player amongst many players,
you are an amusement to watch.
I sit and wait for the hammer to fall,
it doesn’t, and I wonder when it will.
A fault in that elegant demeanour shows,
for one man sees behind the masquerade.
I see you frown and flinch at his words,
then recede into the shadows tonight.
An entertaining amusement for the sick,
I take no pleasure in seeing you fall.
Tonight I will sit and wait for you to return;
so many lessons to learn, sweet daughter.
Standing at The Nobbies, Phillip Island.
Your heart yearns for the sea.
Sitting in your office, you drift towards the southern saltwater.
Lost in the south sea, you drift unnoticed and unafraid of what may become of you.
You float on the waves, the sun begins to set, and you think of nothing.
In the middle of burnt dirt
with the odd Mulga lookin’ like unbrushed hair.
We don’t dare fan the flames
of the dead ones out here in this no law land.
In burning heat, we suffer
through thoughts muddled into dirt and sky.
We wish for cold grey skies
with kept trees lookin’ like English Butlers.
In the outback, we wonder
about the dead as the daylight turns to night.
We stand sipping hot water
with muddled feelings about this old land.
Outside we look towards the
sea of starlight in this dark open landscape.
We remove all traces of the
spaces between us as we finally understand.
The sound of an Oud moves a foreign memory to the fore of your mind as you walk through the streets of a foreign town as a foreigner.
They look at you with different coloured eyes, yet you look at them with the eyes of a person unseasoned in the ways of the world.
The smell of Rose Water, Orange Blossom, and mint tea reminds you of another memory from before you were whom you appear to be now.
A market tempts you to buy material possessions you thought you would never own, as something about the items takes you back.
The touch of a warm breeze moves your legs towards a place of Olive and Oleander, as the memory becomes a reality and you know
why you came to this place.
The light begins to take cover under a sea of clouds;
the clouds move closer and grower darker and darker.
I keep the light off in my room, waiting for the rain to
begin, and hoping for the chance to show you a photo.
You are stuck in North Queensland being burnt by the
sun every day; I sit here in the cold, wet winter I love.
The night creeps closer, and the sky becomes darker,
as the rain starts to fall and move down the window.
I take a series of photos, then send my best one to you,
although I think you will say the weather is yucky again.
The night sets in. I imagine you out and about in the
garden, talking to the neighbour or cooking dinner for two.
You stay locked in North Queensland, and I stay locked in
Gippsland, as we wait for the chance to hug and kiss again.
The light is a faded memory on the horizon, as twilight loses
to the night and the absence of moon and stars leaves only the reflection of someone I should know better in the window.
Too tired for daydreams, yet they come and plague your mind.
You stare out the window at the man with his mower, wondering what it would be like to ride on top as he pushes it along.
Images of you vibrating furiously, him pushing you along, and all the grass covering you.
Your fluffy face comes to me, and I think of the way you pawed my face, a meow, or sleeping beside Daddy.
On the saddest of days, I look at a cloud shaped like your ears with tears of sadness for you, my sweet girl, for you were my Emma, and now you are gone.
Emma the Cat, who passed away last Monday at 15
“The stories she told! I don’t see ‘er so well now, yet she’s in my heart still telling stories.”
“She must have been an interesting woman.”
“My Lasse, she was no woman unless women are made of water and shells. No, she’s the sea! The sea is the best storyteller.”
The blind moves as the breeze flow through the window; I can see the change sun rays make on my skin, as my arms colour and look like desert sand.
The sun casts strong rays across the backyard, as the cobwebs move and drift between grass, weeds, the fence, and the bees dance on the weed flowers. A song from the crickets, birds, a few flies, and the next-door neighbour’s air-conditioner puts my mind to sleep, as I soak up the last sunlight of the day. A change in tempo is on the breeze, as the afternoon drifts into twilight, and the time for sweet soft days of washing going stiff on the line comes to an end. The heat of the day is turning into the warmth of another ending, another night; I won’t miss what I no longer have on this sunlit day, for the night is bright. One song is coming to an end and another song is ready to begin, so I fight with the pegs and the stiff washing: waiting for the first fresh Autumn day.