Category: Poetry

On top of the mountain, above the clouds, we lay back on the picnic benches.

Your sleeping is fitful, little red gums / Inflamed with the pain you can’t say.

We reminded the house /
of the swamp, of hidden things, /
of war and jungle beasts

Lighting up the room,
Their face upon a screen

The boreens tangle in themselves dividing up the land

we did the dance /
you know the one

we can still sway /
despite the crosses we’re born to bear

I saw a word and fell in love /
Thinking, that is me, I’ve found /
It, the thing to define me

anchoring her still to this world / her mind as broken as the daffodils

I found, in the middle, an open grave. / Of course I climbed down