Branches curl their gnarled fingers
Sprouting leaves as thick as hair
I’m older, but drifting alone again
Through the botanic gardens
Roaming the hot houses
I taste that chewable air
Holy loneliness
I hold you dear to me…

The roughness of weathered bark
contrasts the delicacy of fresh stems
Poking from fractured seeds
I feel the world breathe
I’m taking part, I made my peace
I don’t...

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The year was eighteen seventy-eight
Beneath a ruthless, burning sky
Dry Creek slept, remote and sedate
Where dust danced wild and secrets lie

The air was thick with ghostly tales
Wooden homes and slow-worn feet
A silent sheriff on dusty trails
Where time itself forgot to beat

But fate, unseen with playful hand
Brought to the path a gleaming surprise
A box unmarked, from no known land
...

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The light fades slowly on the horizon
like a farewell, hesitant and forlorn
and the night is born with no hurry to be night
lost in the shadows of what’s yet to be drawn

There’s something in the air, a gentle sigh
an unseen movement drifting through the trees
a secret vanishing with the breeze
perhaps a memory that never learned to fly

Words may fade
but silences still hold their weig...

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Toys, mugs and letters dress this stoney garden

In lines that would not impress a cold, gnarled sargent

Stones stagger around like crooked teeth

Adorned with names, chocolates and festive wreaths

The view is long, sprawling forever

Lost but knowing in its endevour

The living are still, smiling through their solemness 

Clutching Birthday cards with Christmas sadness

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