Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Lucy Alexander #28 Wallaby

How the wisteria
holds up the pillars

the holly berries are as red
as broken blood vessels

and here he hops,
lip pity lip

as if he was always here
as if his song of this place

out numbers the years its stood
brick and tile here

that he has come from
some long distant past
to find that creek

or grassy slope
that once was here

all the long days ago
now stands in confusion

on the gravel
wondering what time has done

to his old map
and what that purple smell is

on the air.


  1. Poor fella my country - love it - so evocative of loss and journey.

  2. Oh the old map it is never really gone I hope. Beautiful poem, Lucy.

  3. Thanks All, really surprised to meet him there.


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