Poetry | Stories | Photography
The rain begins to fall. The cold wind moves through your hair as you watch the person you love descend into the soil.
The raindrops roll down your pale face as you hear a song you both loved.
No longer visible, the wind blows as the music comes to an end and you walk away.
Remembering us
standing in the summer rain
wetting our dry skin?
Now we stand inside waiting
for the acid rain to fall.
Intense Petrichor.
A Fervour for rain dancing,
naked and muddy.
Some prayed for rain; others danced, many gave up hope as the dams dried up.
An old man sat looking at them, shook his head, and thought of all those times he scolded the rain.
What he’d give for drop now, yet then he hated how the rain always ruined his plans.
An old heart moving
against the Warragul wind,
to feel the cold rain.
Admiring the wild green hills,
slowly devoured by houses.
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.
Condensation moves
My view of the world
Distant trees stand
Distorted by condensation
Wild wind whistling
Rain lashes the outside
Near and far from me
Whistling outside prison
Ceiling light reflection
Raindrops dance in my light
Outside, night creeps slowly
My view reflects only me
Condensation sets in
Rain running down, down
Outside is a dreamland
Rain, wind and whispers
My warm prison is artificial
My view, clear in my reflection
The sky holds the bad-tempered sun,
in one of those moods;
the dry land is burning.
Humans walk along in a forced daze.
Animals take shelter.
Birds steal old chips.
The fiery winds blow through the cities,
new hairdos flee freely,
cracked lips are now “in”.
Winter white skin turns bright lobster pink.
Different pigments burn;
natural tanners strip off.
Burning hell is the new spring, so it seems.
Bushfires strip old towns,
heartache echoes loss.
From out of nowhere, he moves so freely.
Sunnies for Mr Cool;
Donning linen luxury.
Moving in a saunter to defy the sun.
The sky looks down,
wishing for rain.
Rain falls from the sooty clouds
to kiss the desolation we made.
They saw the rain contemptuously,
then they cried when it fell no more.
The clouds call the rain to fall again,
but only for the love of the land.
C & K 