Poetry

Sparrows are dancing
To a piece of bread.
Brown wings flitting,
Heads nodding,
Toes shuffling,
Finding position.
A square dance
In straight lines.
Then a chacha.
The fastest dancer
Wins a prize.
A second prize.
A prize for each.
And then a waltz.
Wing in wing.
What’s yours is mine.
Until the seagull comes
And takes it all.

The water is washing over stones
Beside white onion weed
And wild ginger in their new home.
White on green and green on peach,
Fade as a thousand pearls scatter
Across the even’s fiery sky.
Somewhere a morepork calls,
And then again – morepork –
Beckoning the night’s fire lights,
Lit in unison across a hundred homes,
A hundred glowing homes,
That are remembering again,
What it is to be at peace.

The rain is coming.
Waiting for the autumn leaves to fall,
Before it makes lasagne sheets
For the feet of passersby.
The air is thick with the scent
Of cars speeding by,
Collecting dust,
Abandoned by fields,
That can no longer claim the soil
As their own;
The dust that wallpapers children’s rooms
At night.
The rain is coming,
We can breathe easy now,
When first cracks the lightning strike,
Into the lone dead tree,
Too deep for the men to pull,
Now a fire lighting up the night.
It will hiss when the rain comes,
The hiss of cats at dogs.
The hiss of life making space.
The rain is coming,
Soon seeds will keep their vows,
And we will live well again.
The rain is coming.

You have found the basket
And made it your home,
Eyes peeking above the edge
Hidden from the world;
A lion’s play.
Your claw marks on the door
Announcements to come in –
At will
Our price for your company.
Along with the vet bills,
Rejected food,
Stray hair,
And fur balls.
And then it’s time to leave or not.
You decide.
Another stroke to remind you,
With arching back,
That this human is yours,
Has your scent.
Your food.
Your back.