Turn Left At The Elm Trees

A dusty road for angels and shadows

The elm trees will show you the way

Turn left at those old moody trees

With jagged leaves and soft, soft bark

Climb up high where the sun reflects

Old house cut into two

One darkened room with matching window

Wood cut from a hill recuperating

A view of the well documented pine, jagged, a crooked mouth 

A view of a red roof (it remembers the trains)

A shallow dam 

Reflects the opening sky

Like cigarette packet cellophane

It shines and ripples on the wind

Tadpoles know the season

The tussocks and hollow grass grow in the mud

Where paddocks meet

Gates open

Small gates and long gates

Gates with wire holding them closed

Or chained to posts

Posts of hardwood

Cracked in the weather

With cockatoo feathers sticking from their tops

Found in the grass

Below the trees

And pierced into the wood

A rough uncured totem

A token to the birds, to the tree

To the sun shining on the skin

That shows

Between collar and hair

Granite rocks

Covered in moss

Flat, dry, the colour of wrens

Or furry, deep green, and soft like carpet

A good spot for a picnic on a sun covered day

With a family

Who drink from tin mugs

Juice, or apple cider

Granite rocks

Carved by the feet of four children

Running over them

Climbing as high as they can

Hiding amongst them

Walking into them

Looking closely at what is growing from the cracks

Never looking at them

To think of their history

Or their future

The large hill with a fence running on one side

A fence that catches horses

Boys

Blackberries

And fur from wombats that shuffle through

The large hill with the trees

The trees that hold the Black Cockatoos before it rains

The trees that smell of honey afterwards

Those trees that watched like an audience

That promises were made to

That knew they were not going to be kept

It’s hard to keep some promises

It’s hard being Peter Pan

Harder, maybe, being Captain Hook

But trees remember boys

And poets remember trees

Those trees that kicked against the storms

Threw themselves at the wind

Sang with each other at every touch of the breeze

The trees that were labeled as dangerous

Not to be stood under whilst the lightening flashed

But there was always a tree there

And you could feel the energy race through them

Like on hot summer days

Their laziness could be felt

Their boredom and their apathy

It was always a joy

A big fire burning at your hands

Every leaf casting a shadow on the next

The heat making them shudder

Smoke making their colour go from green to grey

Those trees are still there

Standing tall

Holding their skirts up

So as not to get caught

Amongst the bracken and the briars

The blackberries and the hayseed

Trying not to trip on the stones or in rabbit holes

And they throw their gumnuts open

At the spaces left

By the fallen logs

Their poor brothers

Who watch as the grasses grow

Over their horizontal trunks

The little creek

Above it, a wild plum

And there it starts

With just a clear trickle

That slowly fills a muddy swamp

Full of reeds and weeds

Housing many long legged insects

That can jump so high

A haven for mosquitoes

So a heaven for birds

Who watch the waters

As it seeps past

Until it is back out into the sun

And forms a creek again

A little creek

Clear and sweet

Running through and over paths

And over rocks

Kept clear of too many weeds

By young cold hands

Who find silver coins

On its muddy banks

Water running past ferns and moss

Past forgotten car and decaying bridge

Finally

That little creek

Arrives to where it needs to be

It spills into the flowing water

The Shaking Water

It spills and shudders and trips against itself

Like Champaign thrown high in the air

Past carved rock and inaccessible banks

Where Lyrebirds swoop

And friends explore

Where goats climb in case of flood

Where erosion pulls at fences and vines climb high into the trees

The night that grabs at you as you think of your past

The words that have been spoken by the women who raised you

The comfort of them, and the truth of their presence

The night that shows you how clear the stars can be

And you know you can feel exactly how it once was

And the love that was shown

In three different houses

One with the red roof

One with the tapestry

One with the pentagram fire and geraniums

It didn’t matter

Each home was home and each door unlocked

The acoustic evening playing for the eucalyptus

Right through to the pine tree hill

Jagged ridges catching the last of the sun

The cool grey pulls its belly across the valley

Dew comes with a night unnoticed

When frosted window appears in august

With frozen puddles and birds walking over ice

Fog flowing from mouths

As the day was broken with the thoughts of what had to happen

Those paths, like the night stars, were clear

Mornings of snow to wake up to

To blanket walking ghosts

Days in sunshine pulling at weeds

Sitting on logs

They were the horses

Searching for strawberries

Raspberries, Boysenberries

Crawling through tea-tree

Collecting wattle blossom in hair, pockets, and imagination

Sliding down hills on empty chaff bags

Grinding wheat or making homes amongst fallen trees

And as all lines must blur

All mirrors must chip

What will happen?

As the deals with the gods are broken

And the portraits and mosaics are packed away

With trees falling asunder atop the fences rusted and barbed

The noises of the wrens echoing off towards pine tree

Who is left to feel the leaf brush against their cheek?

Who can feel the wind throw itself against their face?

And what promises will be made

To those that are left standing?

Who will remember those that have fallen?

Like the soldiers of a war that was sadly lost, yet never fought!

The distorted memory of the weeds in frost

Stinging nettles amongst vegetables

Rabbits awoken by the birds that feature in all myths

And how many black cockatoos are counted these days?

And yet the rain still falls!

And how many feathers are still collected?

And yet they are still scattered amongst the ground

Where are the geraniums? Who was the son who inherited them?

Who was the son who inherited that bond, and that happiness?

Who was the son who ran up the hill?

The hill of opportunity

Looking for his future, looking for the sun

Listening to the advice that is so often given

Yet rarely taken amongst a family full of experience

So memory will take that which is shiny

And often ask for more

The imagination will hide amongst trees

Where children swing on ropes

Great monsters made of wood and shadow

Lick at the fading light

Forcing young girls to lie and see what they will

Forcing a younger boy to take a step into cowardice

While running barefooted over gravel

Running barefooted through puddles

Over grass and on roads of gravel and clay

With clouds of dust hiding him from the world

Tussocks of reed hiding him from the angels

The only ones who watch him

As he grows old enough to grab at the dying geraniums

Those potted plants sitting on a verandah

Living through so much

Grabbing at their leaf and squeezing the scent out

As he smells it he can look out at a hill

As the angels look down at him

And with all the stories of foreign lands

With all the cases against and for

Great piano concertos that will never be written

About the love between the trees

The sound of the little birds beneath those two eagles

Where have they gone?

All that is left is one big sky

Sometimes full of mumbling, symmetrical cloud

Sometimes empty of everything but reflection

Until it pauses to learn another language

It pauses to answer questions that it heard so long ago

About Rhodesia and her dogs

About England and her photography

About Kenya and her trains

About Australia and her shearers

About China and her miners

About a boy and his promises

And that poor sky still thinks this boy is below it

Digging at rhubarb and mint

Resting on the granite rock

Looking out to count the black cockatoo

But the boy is not there…

That boy has donned shoes

He has left to find the path

Gone to find his own sugarcane and elephants

Trying to be brave  

And while he is still on the same dusty road of angels and shadows

And he is still the young man who runs up great hills of opportunity

With eyes before him

Every now and then he stops and looks

For somewhere there is another small track

Turning to the left

Lined with elm trees

Those old, moody trees