Poetry
The Music Maker
By the river at New Norcia wind
turns wire fences into harps;
air slithers, slides along shiny lengths,
vibrates over stretched strands
hums happily through the scales.
Finding hollow pipes, it thrums through them,
Makes melodies, melds notes into song.
A human conduit
joining fence to fence at gate post
becomes wind’s living dynamo,
directing shoreless waves of sound
around empty paddocks
by the river at New Norcia.
Banquet at Fremantle Arts Centre, March 1997
Plane trees, branches spread in benediction
filter heat haze into pale green lace
while writers ‘in the spotlight’ search
the landscape of fiction and ask:
“Is it your story, or mine?”
They seek the ownership of truth,
discuss the notion of crossing lines
of interpretation, transformation and confrontation;
finally compare ‘tears before bedtime,’
in a session on the serious consequences of criticism.
For three days devotees sit in adulation,
sigh and wonder, “Why not me?”
They queue with books for signing,
sip wine and nibble cheese –
mice at the table of the greats.
In Austin
under Congress Bridge
we wait to see the bats.
poised for the explosion
we watch people –
family groups, young lovers
and more,
picnicking on the grass.
Are the bats watching us
I wonder?
Or do they, unconcerned
go about their business,
stretching wings, flexing
echolocators, preparing to
fly free to eat their fill
of mosquitoes.
(In Austin published in Beyond the Gate; 2004)
From Hassell to Holland
[ in the Stirling Ranges of south Western Australia ]
The birdless mound of Hassell –
shaky rocks and dieback ridden –
sent a chorus of cicadas
to speed us on our way to
Holland
via ‘die Lelie’, where
Broomhill bricks and Albany beams
co-exist with clogs and skates.
The miller, who has no flour,
turns the cap, sails into wind
as we drink coffee or
sip wine and contemplate the
‘not Holland’ view.
(From Hassell to Holland published in Writing the Stirlings 2;1998)