With pride of place, as tall as me

Only more alive

Regular as clock-work it got polished

Or wound for its chimes.

In between she used to say (knowing my mother)

"Don't mind her, you're as good as anyone" but later

Few women polished me, let alone wound my spring

I never kept good time or chimed and

Rarely got listened to

I'm ticking over now

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`



small sounds
twinkle in my ear
a velvet touch of
invisible fingers quietly
mingle on a weathered cheek
with sullen humid arvo sweat

bleating echoes in the wind
dessicated foliage rustles
as creaking floorboards
whisper willowed memories --
childhood's laughter rings
clarion of tomorrow fades

`

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