fence song, frog song

The fence is singing,
each strand giving,
its reply to the wind.
It hums in harmony
to the frog-song rising,
rejoicing, from the dam.

In the right conditions, our fence sings in the wind. The top two strands are barbed wire, so the resonance is damped, but the lower four strands vibrate and resonate in the wind, and each produces a distinct frequency, but you have to lean close to hear it.  On a windy evening the fence sings harmony to the melody of the frogs. 

too much X-files?

As the track approaches the crest,
a sudden band of light
appears behind the trees.

Alien landing lights!?!

…no, just the city skyglow

I trundle on in the dark,
disappointed,
and slightly embarrassed.

eagles

These are my eagles, painted some weeks ago now, after writing “watching paint dry”. Today my daughter and I are painting another wall blue, in preparation for more pictures. But this will be inside one of her brother’s rooms, so will have his choice of images – so far that’s probably going to be steam-punk style flying battleships and a flying city. But I’ll sneak a bird or two in… maybe a flock of origami cranes in the background.

I’d rather watch drying paint

Have you ever noticed
how pale paint is in the tin?
You can’t help wondering –
can this really be blue?

tagging the sky

we mark our territory
and write “I was here”
everywhere we go
even the sky is sullied
by the spray-can jets,
tagged with their graffiti
of criss-crossing contrails

One of the positives of social distancing and travel restrictions is the sky is clean. Before COVID-19, the contrails of the Melbourne-Sydney route were a daily feature of the early morning and evening sky here. Now if only something could be done about the skyglow from Canberra that ruins the view of the stars to the south-west…

Mum’s hair dressing salon

You, put the chair on the porch
you, get the big scissors
Okay, who’s first…
Oh come on…

adagio to allegro

there is no punctuation
between sleep and obligation
each thought flows
becoming the next
dolce
woodwind-mellow
breath-paced
before the pull
of the pizzicato day

Buttercups

The lane ends,
the traffic stops.
And I see:
buttercups!
Perfect, glossy yellow,
rising from the
damp dark green.

I could get out,
and sit with the buttercups
and watch the cars pass.

But the traffic moves,
and before the thought
can become the act,
I am following again.

bushfire moon

 A thin crescent,

bloodied by smoke,

hangs low above the ridge.

This is not a portent

of things to come.

It is a statement,

of what is here.

Written a few months ago, when we were constantly ready to evacuate our bushland retreat. There is a downside to a tree-change. 

cleaning

The toilet is scrubbed,
toothpaste scraped from the grout,
spots wiped from the mirror
and the rubbish thrown out.