fewer than a ghost town
where the currawongs
scrawl their names
the half tail feral cat
hiccups the last budgie’s feathers
the post office doors
open outward
once a river dawdled
many places to go
environmental flows
lapsed in occupation
big trees rolled
throughout the compass
six-minute people
scratch out lives
the win beneath the crinkle
hesitates for bearing
set and dawn
the twenty-four hours persist
faith swings
out of the pendulum chime
call out the broken testament
see what time it is
ReplyDeleteA wonderful poem. Thank you. I'm a bit reminded of this old thing of mine...
Three Minutes With Reality
after Astor Piazzolla
It takes so little to get the three minutes
Or so much depending on where you are
Those three minutes might be sombre
They could be ecstatic or just be quiet
The only trick is to be there at the time
After that they who look back will say
Your life is never going to be the same
Three minutes of a battle or a burn or love
You were outside it and now you're in
Well what do they know it's not a club
You survive that and you survive the next
And the three minutes fall on like the rain
That keeps on getting louder and then it stops
Three minutes with reality float by like clouds
But I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea.
Oh yes! The genesis for me was the comment by a young indigenous commentator that if you saw the indigenous presence on this continent as 24 hours, European occupancy amounted to six minutes!
ReplyDeleteThat would be right!
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