More poetry from Australia Ross Clark

Sleeping on the Brine

Midnight pilots the mind to miracles
or mirages. Thought lies anchored
with its crew at rest and no lookout
to warn of the interloper boarding
from the longboat: madness needs
no moonlight, stealths its way to
the wheelhouse, grapples every degree
of wind, every tackle of tide, sounds
every watch with leaden tongue,
marks every depth beyond despair,
resounds its victory in every quarter,
giving none.

Seven Wishbones

Yes, I have sent three crows
to crenellate your guttering,
to stave your powerlines:
     muttering their rosaries,
     they will watch over you.

Yes, I have sent two magpies
to swoop in your yard,
to carol in your mornings:
     they are our morsebirds,
     our speaking in their songs.

But also I have sent a single
rainbow lorikeet, whose work
is just to play, whose charge
     is to show you colour,
     to make you smile.
In my own far paddock
I wear dark feathers in my coat
and await my winged day.

(for Sharon)

In Focus

the zen photographer
travelled the world’s four seasons
without his camera
     when he returned home
     he drew these nine pictures
     we see here
          he never left his village again


A Hempen Helix

The landlord’s men have cut my rope
and flung it far from me;
there’s barely now three feet of it
still hanging from my tree –

I cannot lash, I cannot bind,
and I cannot take my life:
the landlord’s men have severed hope
with their indentured knife.