SUBURBAN FROG
I
stopped to stand
on
a stone bridge
in
the wetlands
I
stopped to listen to
a
frog’s monologue donk donk
but
as I stopped he stopped –
all
I heard was a handyman
thumping
and sawing
to
my left and to my right
space
invaders in a backyard.
I
stood and waited to
catch
my breath and as I
waited
frog started again donk
closer
seemingly donk donk
under
the bridge – and his throaty song
lightened
my load donk donk
and
I smiled as I looked up
to
the top of the tallest gum donk
SUMMER
BAKE
while the cake bakes
as I listen to criss-cross by
the dancing monk of jazz
a magpie lark came to my windowsill
ah even the white snails
stop eating the cactus and
the caterpillars walk in
cross rhythms with the ants
as the golden sun ball bounced off
the empty letter box.
I halved the sugar load coz
the bananas were so ripe.
while the cake bakes
I listen to a BBC piano played
with an african-american accent
and dance on my keys.
IN EARLY AUTUMN NIGHT
for David Brooks
I
lie here
reading
Ponge’s Things
when
I smell the woody smoke
from
your writing shed’s potbelly
way
over in the Blue Mountains
and
hear the multilingual words
of
your weatherboard shelves compete
with
the hurrying scurrying feet
of
possums in your roof at night.
It’s
my experience of
the
Fire Sermon, the lasting text
in
the mountain air, time
so
tricked to be in
two
places at once.
