Saturday, October 29, 2011

Open cut

A sanctuary falls in the central west;
several of us hear it.
We word our concerns to futility
and mourn with hearts bleeding green.

A stockman buried deep in the bush
knows not the deceptions
of those playing with power --
with solar power, coal power,
fiscal power, people power --
shifting them about
in a sliding puzzle.

A stockman buried deep in the bush
knows well the seasons, the years,
the exotics and natives;
he knows his place
and the place where humanity
might have rested well.

Justine Reilly

Sunday, October 9, 2011

Red earth in a pickle jar

Words came to me at dawn;
like music
they roused me
to the other side of consciousness.

Stillness gained ground
with each new birdsong
and mental habitat mended.

Stillness amassed with your arrival,
the air became thick with golden sound
and your silence warmed me.

I buried my limbs in red sand:
such gravity I’d never known,
drawn to the earth
my heart did rest,
deep and content.

October 2011