Heywood, 1981

Granny was light

Grandad was heavy

the rector said they were kind

the cofffins were made of red wood

autumn was pinning its medal on the year

the Fitzroy River full

of yellow willow-leaves

I polished the old silver with a pair

of torn underpants and planted

some apple-trees

they looked frail

farmers were putting out white hay

ravens pecking at afterbirths

hats of diesel smoke

escaping from tractors' exhausts

emus struggling through the barbed wire fleeing

Gary suggested we fell trees

and sell fenceposts, but I turned him down

dreaming of university

clouds passed thinly

white as granite sand

tracks were grey and dry

I caught the train to Melbourne

they were buried on the volcanic hill

outside town

plain stone crosses

                             ©Robin Dale 2001

Saturday Night

The worldwrack deepens

as night crowns close, then,

about one, softsigh silence clutches the town.

Wizened light drifts through the black canopy,

the stars, budding-old corsairs of the air.

I bleed silversilk in this,

this stoop of cosmos

rolling on a fleet echo unheard

across dead roofs and lamp-picked courses,

swapping workworld for liquid sleep.

Now night dreams away,

tar and peat, cool, balmblack.

The clock shuffles on,

two, three; cold awning of cleated time,

and only a bark

dimflung from the riverbank.

Day’s chess and corsets

in the chest, and blockbook

wordy windings give way, away

wandworld spins her Open,

dark, but full of stars.

Let breath, headspin,

make deathdown live,

and all folk plunge.

                               ©Robin Dale 2003

email manfred@tilt.com.au