In the Morning Mist…

(A Micro-) Prologue (in the Form of an Epitaph-Haiku)

What’s my profession?
Collector of bamboo seeds
to bake loaves of bread…

1. Memories of Melbourne

Grey Melbourne in the morning mist
washed and soaked clean 
in the fine spray of a Spring drizzle,
like ships at sea the trams glide past,
their engine rooms punctuated
with mournful bells, sometimes echoing...

O Steve, this poem has not forgotten your name,
"a Dorset boy," you said you were,
in between a maritime and a naval trade,
hoping to earn some more points
to see Australia for a third time,
in order to land and settle down,
of course, somewhere along this line of shore...

For the next three mornings must attend
this conference for philosophers
where bright young things, 
and the not too old, 
read interminable book reviews, 
desperately seeking jobs, 
or finding excuses to keep the same, 
and my thoughts travel to the Zoo,
or the penguins on Phillip Island...

For lunch go to Lygon Street,
with coffee more Italian than Italy,
a blend with a fine, smooth foam 
upon a rough, raw complexion,
shattered artichokes upon a square pizza
and two unique cakes on a plate 
just beating the rain 
as it slowly edges across this lonely table...

The moss-green parks are all out of season,
some once surrounded only by terraces 
now find nondescript office-factories 
that have seen better days,
some trees in flower or blossom, 
or in leaf, while others merely rattle
like black skeletons from a past Winter,
a rolling landscape with paths 
that go in all the wrong directions 
highlighted with occasional part-time joggers 
whose shadows slowly amble around the same...

That last night taking tea in the hostel
waiting for the friendly face 
sleeping in that empty bunk
now lying beside mine, in waking
no more that early morning sigh,
nor rising together to shower 
and break our night-time fast,
no more those tales shared
while looking through those windows
onto a view only we could see,
without words in a world of conversation,
swapping anecdotes like seeing Uhluru,
like walking around the Tower of London 
but not seeing those treasures within
being too poor to pay the price of admission...

Grey Melbourne in the evening mist
washed and soaked clean 
in the fine spray of a Spring drizzle,
like ships at sea the trams glide past,
their engine rooms punctuated
with mournful bells, sometimes echoing...

   The above poem was inspired by the following quotation found 
on a loose leaf inserted in an old book bought in Melbourne at the time…

Ships that pass in the night, and speak
	each other in passing,

Only a signal shewn, and a distant voice
	in the darkness.

So, on the ocean of life we pass and
	speak one another,

Only a look and a voice, then darkness
	again and silence.

			-- Longfellow.

2. A Nominal Triptych

	i. Like old friends the wind
	and the pine tree heard chatting,
	creaking together.

I. Today was that day he had to say good-bye
to his mother, father and family, 
walking out to the front gate, 
now permanently left open, 
having that very week broken off 
its brittle, rusting hinges, 
its rotting, fragile form lying half-hidden 
in the wandering ivy and pine needles.
Slowly they ambled down those steps
set in stone, painted in tissue-thin lichen,
holding back that final farewell, 
that final embrace, that final wave
heavy with falling drops of tears
not seen but felt across the expansion 
of this space carefully watched,
blurring this small company of figures, 
long-time friends, now companions in arms 
singing songs about loved ones 
signing up and marching to fight 
in some unknown place far off,
in one more, distant, patriotic war...

His registration number was called up,
he stood in line beside the office door.

Rows of men in uniforms of pale, white underpants
wait their turn in these sequential examinations 
more form than formal, tests more provisional
than testing, marks upon a paper marking out
one more soldier, made through the stroke of a pen...

His registration number was called out,
so many were chosen to fight this war.

The next number to be called 
was that of his best friend, 
and the two of them, as is the habit of fate,
ended up being captured twice,
now a third time on the run 
taking slow trains to the South, 
to the heat and the sun
and a real chance to fight this foe 
without being simply defeated in a retreat,
in an ordered disengagement designed on charts,
that on the ground did make even less sense.
Between sleeping in haystacks and eating grapes
and taking turns guarding their simple camp,
from bitter farmers finding a better harvest
in prisoners traded in and paid for in francs,
our two comrades take their seats, 
trying ever so hard to just look local,
not saying much more than that odd foreign word, 
not trying to look too bored without being vocal.
But alas, the distance between life and death
is no more than the blink of an eye,
a nod of the head, a simple twitch, or sigh...

His registration number was called up,
and was fated to live this life no more.

The train was being searched, 
they were quietly told,
time to go, time to leave, take the door,
just be careful when and how you fall,
and on the bend before the tunnel
the first one fell and jumped free 
but his friend met his end dragged in 
and under the now speeding wheels 
starting to rip apart this noble soul, 
this fading star now fallen upon this earth...

His registration number was spelt out,
in a telegram dropped upon the floor.

Helpless the two lay there frozen 
in a line of sight but being pulled apart, 
cut asunder, whilst these bonds
of friendship could not snap, 
yet demanded that they now part...

Go, our hero called out, beyond recall,
his name no longer enumerated
on the echoing lips of moving rhyme.

Is death that day our name be no longer chanted,
and they in turn who remembered us 
equally find no recitation
in this long litany of lost pretension?
How short that poem found in nominal repetition,
how sweet that name said in love, or jest,
thrown in anger, entered in question, 
merely said in those short, sacred moments 
of such evocative enchantment...

Somewhere in distant France his grave is shared,
cared for by those working worms of the soil,
in fields fresh with corn cut down in their prime.

Eventually, inevitably, we exit this world,
like rivers finding the sea,
without a name, without denomination.
Remember, O friend, to light a starry candle,
to re-ignite that flame that signals 

to those that live and love that we too,
ourselves, in time, will be like that
			 nameless one...

	*****************************

His registration number was called up,
he stood in line beside the office door.
His registration number was called out,
so many were chosen to fight this war.
His registration number was called up,
and was fated to live this life no more.
His registration number was spelt out,
in a telegram dropped upon the floor.
Go, our hero called out, beyond recall,
his name no longer enumerated
on the echoing lips of moving rhyme.
Somewhere in distant France his grave is shared,
cared for by those working worms of the soil,
in fields fresh with corn cut down in their prime.

	*****************************

ii. The bottle-brush flow’rs
bleeding, after rain, lining 
the gutters, congealed.

I.  A thin lone, lonely figure quickly walks up 
the street, in old-fashioned, brand-new clothes,
coming home after five years of war, 
or rather, a succession of prisoner of war camps.
These days few get to really fight
the rest end up merely beaten; bashed 
or dashed to pieces to some degree or other.
Not yet expected here, but some time tomorrow,
he pauses at this now forever open gate
to notice how this old house stands in need of repair
and remembers how his parents described themselves
as `rich in happiness' despite being `sadly poor'...

Just who is it that sings inside this house,
and who is it that knocks hard upon the door?

A new gate now swings upon the hinges of the old,
while the last one still leaves a hidden trace
beneath the eternal embrace of the creeping ivy.
The house is once more repainted with lawns out front
and a vegetable garden out the back 
with some roses climbing the fence harvested
with a young woman's touch, arranged in a slightly cracked
porcelain vase placed upon a table set with food.
A bell summoning the menfolk to the Sunday roast,
the welcoming aroma of lamb floating in gravy
spiced with carrots and well-toasted potatoes, 
with parsnips and peas and a hint of mint sauce 
just that minute freshly made, ready to be strained.
Grace is said by the wife in a habit nearly forgotten,
while the butter knives are left lying there
on the freshly washed linen table top with small stains
discreetly disguised beneath strategic bowls and dishes
while the conversation delivers a succession of topics
of past things desired, longed for; of things to come...

Just who is it that cries within these walls,
and who is it that laughs about the war?

Veteran friends and their wives are playing cards,
in another room sleeps a new born child, a son.
`Was he breast-fed or was it the bottle?' 
was asked his mum, her answer swallowed up 
in the roar of laughter as the jokes become
a little lighter and closer to home,
tongues loosened a little in occasional liquor
served from the central altar 
of the mahogany cocktail cabinet,
incensed with the thick smoke of cigarettes
lit with the flashes of matches and lighters;
ornately moulded in the latest plastic
mounted in metal with a trim set in guilt
looking ever so chic and ever so expensive...

Wriggling, crawling, taking tentative steps,
what age hath this spirit walking the floor?

Would you believe it, this sergeant major 
is only two, and how old is she, 
how cute she looks, such a quiet little bunny 
in a bonnet under a rug with a pink ribbon 
to match his gollywog knitted out 
in red and green, black and blue,
starting to unravel at a furious pace
from the edges of the pram into 
a darkly lit, damp room with no view..?

Struggling, falling and picking themselves up,
to what great heights can the inner soul soar?

Shifting house, moving onto a hill,
how serene this place must then seem 
with the kids soon locked up in school,
respite for left-at-home mothers
lost in the rituals of everyday chores
these days overlooked by working mums...

Catching morning sun beams dancing in the dust
the eyes of this small child forget to see
and in their stead soon learn to merely speak.

Overweight women with wobbling, wavering voices
singing to pianos more roaring and forte,
both totally out of tune with each other
in the primary school, sunday school and cubs,
in the intermediate and secondary schools,
in those camp fire concerts put on by scouts.
All morning doing their tables in unison,
then listening to the old English teacher 
going to sleep after a large lunch of sandwiches,
hands aching writing essays rewritten in vivid red,
tomorrow they walk the golf-links looking for birds
too silly by far to go too near the bleatings 
of this gamboling flock of sheep...

Fetching things, hearing the gossip discussed,
discovering our playful humanity
repeated in endless games of hide and seek.

Weeks turn into months, repeated year by year,
and periods of peace take on a more permanent strain,
highlighted by the reunion of visits and departures,
weddings and funerals, and the sudden death of father.
And the trauma of shifting house, a mobile mother
in a wheelchair coming to terms without the joy 
of a garden kept in perfect order, with the weeds 
now meeting the edges and loosing the plot.
Twice made speechless, choking on words and food,
gardening on by proxy to the very end.
When, just after walking towards Woolworths, 
and the nearby shopping center, this time not buying,
with his mother's coffin then slid within the hearse, 
and with the setting sun behind them, at the wake,
he was told this tale of how his dad's best friend
lost his life in the war and how the son 
looked just like him as if he had come back again,
and how his friends would joke about this resemblance
even though not one word of this, until then, was ever said,
ever mentioned to this son with another name.
Is the body, then, perhaps, merely some anonymous lot,
a vacant space to park this car and build a house,
a place to purchase some time before we become 
once more quite dead, once more quite dead..?

	*****************************

Just who is it that sings inside this house,
and who is it that knocks hard upon the door?
Just who is it that cries within these walls,
and who is it that laughs about the war?
Wriggling, crawling, taking tentative steps,
what age hath this spirit walking the floor?
Struggling, falling and picking themselves up,
to what great heights can the inner soul soar?
Catching morning sun beams dancing in the dust
the eyes of this small child forget to see
and in their stead soon learn to merely speak.
Fetching things, hearing the gossip discussed,
discovering our playful humanity
repeated in endless games of hide and seek.

	*****************************

	iii. After Summer storm
	dried moss reanimated
	in a swarm of flies.

3. The poor scholar taking time from his books
in heat of noon looks down upon the street,
a microcosm of the macrocosm, for here below
an essential fraction of the rest of the world
congregates and meets, in work or pleasure,
performing all those rituals that make us 
all so human, all so human...

This modest penthouse apartment has eyes,
windows upon the working world below.

Today, quite unexpected, he is met 
by a young student, and opens the door 
in his blue Chinese silk dressing gown.
`Don't get dressed,' said his young friend, 
when told he was sick, with the flu,  
now almost fully recovered.
He addressed this young son 
of a relative of a friend,
`Would you like some tea,' to be instantly told,
`I thought you would never ask,' with a grin 
and a smile that canceled out 
the faintest hint of disrespect…

This old fashioned art deco flat has ears
to hear footsteps climbing those concrete stairs.

`It’s all so disconcerting, 
what must the old lady below ever think…' 
He then addressed his young charge a second time 
they did again in the same fashion 
so unexpectedly meet, but, without a pause 
his friend said, `I enjoy your company,
your conversation and become drunk 
on your fine wit, I admire your sense of mission 
and your lack of competitive competition,
anyhow, its more fun for two to take tea together,
a swig of water from a fountain down town 
hardly counts, as for going into a coffee shop,
the people sit and stare and have to ask themselves,
has he no mother, has he no father,
has he paid yet, will he run, 
what fun is there in this equation..?'

This warm, welcoming mansion has a mouth,
one drafty door through which westerlies blow.

`Bloody p.t.,' he said, `they’ve got us running 
up and down hills and through the Gardens
this afternoon, I don't know why they bother
when everyday I save my bus-fares 
walking everywhere stacked with books,
handicapped like some camel in a race across town...

This heavenly retreat sits perched head-like
upon the shoulders of a hill of pray'rs.

He had the same name as that best friend 
of his deceased father who by now had died 
a long, long time ago, a name, 
he thought to himself, as is the roll of the die,
that he too might well have been given.
Tall was this friend, with fine, fair hair,
happy to have met, meeting those signs 
that signal the birth of a friendship 
found on those shores without effort,
found in that wink of an eye, a nod of the head, 
a simple twitch of a smile; or sigh,
for sad was that day when his friend knew
his mentor was now moving to an antique land
covered in sand and part-time snow...

Although resident in these simple rooms
a citizen has the freedom to roam
the wide cosmos beyond these four square walls.

Fifteen years later their paths meet again,
all parties now married, and settling down
to dine on the delights of fine conversation
it seemed that time itself was but a wrinkle
in a material whose reality fabricates a realm,
an open field of space that binds and frees, 
at the same time, those souls, all those souls within,
to be found therein, and in parting that night
in an embrace they simply kissed without thought
for what others might say or think as the rest,
no doubt, might want to calculate...

Or, to visit through musty pages those tombs
filled with dead authors as if still at home
in conversation with the spirit who calls...

Again, the day grows old, endures on the edges 
of the night, cannot make up its mind 
to cough or sneeze, take some rest, go to sleep,
activate the vision of one more dream of dawn,
from such slumber astir in what ever manner
that new day be found wrapped like some present.
Trapped, each one of us, actors in an audience
surrounding a non-existent stage, empty, echoing 
true, transcendental theatre without meaning.
Clapped, each one of us, forever taking a bow,
like an animated marionette merely resident 
in a traced out place between the experiential cracks 
in this fiction of a puppet and a puppeteer.
Clumped, each one of us like strings tied 
loosely together, an historical fact in reality 
without a story - until we re-trace our entry 
back into that spinning world, that world spun,
interwoven, in the tapestry of conversation.
Therein, in suspension, we have the power
to shift the center of this semblance of self 
beyond an embodied point of reference, 
through the force of love wander as free agents,
in this seamless space meeting face to face 
with that object of our choice, be it wise, 
or be it foolish, be it shared, or be it selfish,
even if this undecided breath of decision
presents us with a future perfectly past,
inscribed forever in the sacred volume of the world,
no matter, its nature be a mere simulation
of a substance whose project cannot last...

	*****************************

This modest penthouse apartment has eyes,
windows upon the working world below.
This old fashioned art deco flat has ears
to hear footsteps climbing those concrete stairs.
This warm, welcoming mansion has a mouth,
one drafty door through which westerlies blow.
This heavenly retreat sits perched head-like
upon the shoulders of a hill of pray'rs.
Although resident in these simple rooms
a citizen has the freedom to roam
the wide cosmos beyond these four square walls.
Or, to visit through musty pages those tombs
filled with dead authors as if still at home
in conversation with the spirit who calls...

	*****************************

	v. The gum leaves sound old, 
	seek invitations to dance
	in the swirling breeze.
3. On the Balcony Rails

On the balcony rails
a gull with outstretched wings
signals the imminence
of an evening meal...

In the far off distance
along a stretch of shore
ambles a lone figure
pacing upon a wavy line,
tracing out the dissipation
of those twinkling breakers
crashing upon this wrinkled rim,
the edge around
this living ocean.
A golden moon sails above 
the sacrificing surf,
inhaling the sweetly acrid smell
of salty seaweed daily toasted
upon an oven of glowing sand.
All around scattered relics
of a once animated past:
the ghost of some 
strange marine plant,
a glint of an unknown shell,
polychromatic bits 
and pieces of plastic,
stands of knotted, rotted wood;
surreal sculptures that delight
those decorators who take
a simple pleasure
in shapes uniquely fashioned
in the balance of natural forces...

"Time for tea, Mr. Thompsom,"
said the friendly voice
of that nice nurse helping him 
to sit up in his wheelchair.
"Tonight is Matron's favorite,
fish and chips with 
a slice of lemon,
and if you are good,
and she's not looking,
I'll let you have all 
the tomato sauce
you might wish to care for
in a seventh heaven..."

On the balcony rails
a gull with outstretched wings
signals the imminence
of an evening meal...

4. Old Polly the Paper-Girl

When will Malboro Man
meet old Polly the paper-girl..?

There each morning she stands
catching the traffic, 
waiting at the lights
with a bundle of newspapers
under one arm and one or two
in the other hand with 
one perpetually lit cigarette
puffed at with each determined,
desperate breath...

There each morning she stands
under the elements, weather beaten, 
a face flushed in a sunrise already past, 
finding little pleasure
in her profession,
finding little profit
that does not go up in smoke,
having to wake each dawn
to feed this daily habit...

When will Malboro Man
meet old Polly the paper-girl..?
Not much longer it might be said.
And what might they find in common?
Not much more than that,
not much more than that..?

5. 12 Haiku On The Subject Of Drinking Tea

1.  Seated in tea-house.
Low flying plane passes by
without entering.

2.  Vase without a branch.
Why bother when through the door
prunus at its peak.

3.  Drinking from the bowl 
the white flow’rs of the plum tree
give the tea a froth.

4.  The stellar count-down.
Starry buds of light explode
when the tea is stirred.

5.  The tea is perfumed
whether you like it or not 
at this time of year.

6.  Summer company (?)
These crowds of friends dropping by
to see the blossom.

7.  On the balcony
watering all the pot plants,
longing for a cup.

8.  Thinking, drinking tea.
Find the gold fish in the pond 
had forgotten me.

9.  Drinking tea from cups 
covered in roses, but wish
they were found floating.

10. Milk, sugar ruin
the fine taste of tea, but not
friendship between friends.

11. Tea needs no stirring
but persist in this ritual,
dancing with the leaves.

12. Today, it's my turn
to prepare the tea, alas,
one bowl left undrunk.

6. Its All About You...

Its in the air,
its in the air, 
its all about you,
its all about you:
poetry - poems in formation;
incandescent moments
never quite crystalized,
never quite dissolved,
just enough to reflect the light
before disappearing
into a sequence of words 
echoing in a space
within a space 
never quite lost,
never quite lost
in the sighing embers 
of written speech...

Its in the air,
its in the air, 
its all about you,
its all about you:
poetry - poems in formation;
universal images
in collision,
silently exploding
within the mind
of the hearer,
each witnessing themselves
in secret action,
in interaction,
in the remembered transparency
of a public place
pointed out to you
by the poet,
pointing towards you
right there, 
now summoned to stand 
right here
before them...

Its in the air,
its in the air, 
its all about you,
its all about you:
poetry - poems in formation;
the publication
of intimate revelations,
resonances distilled
from the living world
all around us, 
from the voices
all around us;
sudden continuations 
of a divine conversation
all about you, 
all about you..!

7. Turn the Music Down and Learn to Dance

Turn the music down and learn to dance
those techno blues,
those techno blues..!

Say the word `digital'
and I still think of
fingers and toes.

Say the word `cable'
and I still think of
sending a telegram.

Say the word `highway'
and I still think of 
main-roads in the country.

Say the word `CD'
and I think you must be 
talking about me.

Hey, I'm no techno type,
no computer literate trendy
surfing the net over coffee,
meeting friends in virtual space -
I have enough virtual friends
in good old reality,
though prefer the sort 
you can truly touch,
can meet face to face,
discuss our dreams
with some common sense...

Alas, we no longer live
in the same local village,
such folk are just too far away 
to simply drop in on 
and pass the time of day 
over an esteemed cup 
of steaming Earl Grey tea...

So we need to write or ring,
meet and mingle some other way,
and hopefully don't send them 
a fax when they are not installed,
disconnect that modem,
push the delete button by mistake...

Being `digital' is so demanding,
you need to be so dexterous,
you need to disconnect yourself 
from the cable television 
and that omnipresent satellite,
remove yourself from the distractions
of an informational highway
spread out upon the printed page:-
so open up those manuals 
that need to be better translated,
turn the music down and learn to dance
those techno blues,
those techno blues..!

8.	X Marks the Spot

1.  X marks the spot:
a country town
no where near a sin-city
embracing the rain-kissed coast,
neither a deserted desert township
whose one treasured building
would be one distinctive pub,
just a venerable village 
by-passed by a highway,
still beating with a pulse,
staying alive...
staying alive...

2.  X marks the spot
on a linguistic map
of native peoples
fond of echoing,
just one more town
you might have heard off,
that sounds familiar
beside a slow river
like an old green snake
painting a pastel landscape
just rolling along...
just rolling along...

3.  X marks the spot,
an invisible laboratory,
an unheard of experiment
in multi-culturalism,
as `English' talk with `Irish'
while `Scotch' and `Welsh' beg to differ,
where `Italians' look like `Aussies'
bronzed in the same foundry,
while local lads
in the hotel corner
will mix their drinks...
will mix their drinks...

4.  X marks the spot
where foresters no longer
knock native stands,
harvesting by machine
a white pine timber
simply scented,
alternating with
the rich aroma
of eucalypts
planted in rows
sharing the same soil...
sharing the same soil...

5.  X marks the spot
of one more town 
with a black past,
a town with black roots -
now O'Leary be no pure Irishman,
with a touch a Scotch too,
and Mary may look English
but she's darker than her tan
and on the picnic-party
happy to put her hand out 
for a slice of the cake... 
for a slice of the cake...

6.  X marks the spot
where farmers sweat
over auction prices
made beneath their feet
on the other side 
of this contracting globe,
while miners fear
those collapsing futures
on an a market already flattened
by computer chips
etched in crystal sand...
etched in crystal sand...

7.  X marks the spot
where lives are lived
in human drama
better watched on television,
where Janet and Jane
bake cakes for families
who no longer drop in unannounced,
while Tom and Terry lend 
a helping hand at the church bazaar
selling free samples
best left unsaid...
best left unsaid...

8.  X marks the spot
where folk now like to retreat
to a pastoral lifestyle
superseded by 
an agro agri-business,
a town coming alive, 
waking once more,
a town walking into the future
plugged in and turned on
in a world more real 
than mere flesh and blood...
than mere flesh and blood...

9.  X marks the spot
of a town without a bank
now making money
one hundred different ways;
selling scones with cream,
telling stories on the internet,
milking pensioners in retirement,
making hay while the sun shines
catching yabbies in ponds
above the contaminated creek
for stockbrokers far away...
for stockbrokers far away...

10. X marks the spot
where the old school house
can stand silent
only after midnight,
while a brand new block
had to be built down the street
to teach a baker's dozen
augmented by the butcher
and the candlestick maker
and alternative lifestylers
fleeing a city explosion...
fleeing a city explosion...

11. X marks the spot,
a sleepy shadow,
a dusty hollow
where a new Australia
will find its future
away from the city
centered in drugs and violence,
entered and left
in open anonymity,
where a new Australia
will be better forged...
will be better forged...

12. X marks the spot
where dreams are made
and lost and won
from a soil that turns to dust
plans not laboured upon,
where distance no longer matters
and mountains of the mind
can reclaim the land
when that fast train
deports workers
in this new suburban caravan...
in this new suburban caravan...

13. X marks the spot,
x marks the spot
where progress will soon
leave its flat footprint
in the form of a fast train
on the dull, dusty fullness
of this leafy village life,
so screams that bright red billboard
as staked out in the center 
of this `country' town...
as staked out in the center 
of this `country' town...

9. Gardenia Grove: A Set of Variations on an Unstated Theme

1. Met by the Smell of Gardenias at the Gate

I was met by the smell 
of gardenias at the gate
in this place of refuge,
old buildings in sandstone
with the hint of gothic,
newer wings in concrete
like motels at the Cross
for Mr. and Mrs. Smith,
or alias, so enter
all you poor and needy,
so enter there I did
mentioning those voices,
how I felt suicidal,
and sometimes homicidal,
in the shadows of night-time 
a little paranoid too, 
a weighted, waiting corpse, 
a victim of choices 
already made - should I live,
should I die, should I lie
in the middle of the street, 
just imagining the traffic
passing by, rolling on
without care or concern
for this soul as I sigh,
ooh... alas, am I mad,
am I bad, or, maybe, 
today ,just a little sad,
and who knows how we be:
sanity, insanity,
or inanity - what distance 
be between all these three,
like bubbles upon a sea,
changing clouds upon a sky,
sweet dreams dreamt within dreams,
how narrow that thin line
that decides who be strange
and who be not condemned 
in the mirror of reason
reflecting this cruel fate
when one is met by the smell 
of gardenias at the gate..?

2. One More Admission

"Welcome to Gardenia Grove,
I hope your stay will be
a short and pleasant one"
(said the young nurse
without the least note of irony).
"Meal-times are listed here,
you can find the time 
on the two `working' clocks 
above these doors here and there"
(without remembering that,
conveniently, one clock 
was five minutes fast
and the other clock 
was five minutes slow).
"The toilets are halfway down
the passageway to your right"
(although you need only follow 
your nose and listen for the sounds
of permanently running water
along with the thudding
of those two humming fans
thick with matted dust
about to fly from the wall,
one more time).
"So there you are,"
said that young distracted nurse,
"have you been here before?"
as they opened an old file
at least two inches thick
labeled Volume Three.
"I'll have to ask you some questions.
Can you please tell me 
your date of birth,"
(one piece of information 
that needs to written down twice 
on that same page 
and once on every other).
"And your address please."
"Centennial Park," 
said the new patient
without batting an eyelid.
"And the number, please."
"Just Centennial Park."
"A hotel is it?"
"No, just a cave,
enough of a shelter 
to keep me out of the rain
when I kip for the night."
"Are you allergic to anything?"
"Only these stupid questions,
the doctor has already 
asked me all this
and all they needed to do
was just read the file,
its all there at least thirty times.
Am I correct in believing 
that this admission 
is number thirty-three?
You see, just between you and me,
I've run out of money,
yesterday I dined well 
at the hotel Intercontinental,
and now I am hungry again,
and have this disconcerting habit 
of talking to cars without occupants
in a menacing tone, 
with quite a psychotic temper,
you know what I mean,
all said with an evil stare
broken with the trace 
of a sinister wink
and a muffled, rasping laugh
that said it all,
echoing from the walls 
of this small room set aside
for the admission of patients...

3. How to Admit a `Dicey' Patient

Would you believe that sometime ago 
in this august institution 
of Gardenia Grove Psychiatric Centre
the medical superintendent
and the head nurse decided 
to call a meeting to work on a protocol 
on how to admit a `dicey' patient
without their knowing it..?

One day a young lad found himself
giving birth to a baby
in the carpark of the hospital
his girlfriend was also giving birth:
she laboring under the fruits of conception,
his efforts the results of a misconception
prompted by the `voices' ever so persistent...

This doctor mused out loud,
in an articulate English accent,
"this young chap I had invited
to have a chat with the psychiatrist,
but when he saw the pyjamas offered to him
this insightless lad took himself off 
in a flash like a ballistic missile
back to that same hospital,
so what we need is a protocol,
so what we need is a protocol
for the admission of a `dicey' patient
without their knowing it,
without their knowing it..."

So when it was time to go home
the staff were seriously entertained
by various suggestions put among themselves,
some in jest, some with that necessary degree
of gravity in order, at last, to finally terminate
this intellectual exercise in such absurdity...

"Why not mention Dr. Who, or Dr. X."

"No, no, no, that will not do,
t'is not ethical, a week later
they might be still waiting for a visit
from this imaginary doctor."

"Why not quietly say `fruit alert, fruit alert'."

"No, no, no, that will not do,
the fellow might think 
that they were being call a poof."

"Why not mention a flower..."

"Pansy alert, pansy alert,"
rang out a chorus of two like minded souls,
most of the staff trying ever so hard
not to loose the last trace
of their mere outward composure.

"No, no, no, that will not do,
what we need is a number, 
some simple digits not to be confused
with the telling of the time.
Let me suggest `975' meaning:-
we are in the process of admitting 
a `dicey' patient without their knowing it,
we get some pyjamas, find a single room,
draw up 20:20 IV sedation, 
assemble at least six staff near the patient 
without them being made aware.
Let me also suggest we shout `475' meaning:-
we are in the process of admitting 
a `dicey' patient without them knowing it,
and who have now realized that
they are going to be made to stay,
instantly going into a rugby-tackle formation
to stop and catch this person heading 
for the freedom of the front door..!"

Needless to say all this was totally non-ethical,
was never used, and for a few weeks a joke
as staff tried not to remember those numbers 
as they passed each other in the corridors.
After six months very few people 
even knew that this protocol 
was mysteriously still in effect...

"Could never happen again, 
what with the new Mental Health Act," 
I heard some of them say.
"Maybe no, maybe yes, who knows,
for management may still dabble
in the riddles of such mismanagement,
and the human condition being what it is
there can be no real difference 
in their behaviour from the nature
of any other rabble, for in truth,
decisions made and declared might not be 
what the doctor ordered..!"

4. Drip, Drip, Drip Goes the Tap

Drip, drip, drip goes the tap
leaking in the center of the room.
Drip, drip, drip goes the water heater
creaking around the walls.
Drip, drip, drip goes the drainpipe
speaking about the rain outside.
But no matter all this cannot be heard,
drowned in the roar 
of the airconditioning,
in turn blocked out 
under the mounds of blankets
churning around the bodies
of the four patients in this room -
all snoring even louder -
until the door in the wind
makes one more loud bang;
being just a little unhinged...

5. Finding a Poem in a Simple List of Linen

Like facets of a diamond
all parts of the whole
reflect, to some degree,
the essential state
of their resident totality...

Thirteen shelves of towels;
eight shelves of sheets;
six shelves of pillow cases;
yet not one blanket can be seen;
seven shelves of pyjama tops,
thin cotton in a simple blue, 
with the stark choice -
plain or striped;
yet not one bottom can be seen;
alas, those warm dressing gowns,
it would appear, were discharged
when the patients went home,
and those other cotton gowns  
for the abundantly overweight,
or those too well endowed
with a lack of a neat propriety,
were shelved to save 
the hospital some mis-spent money;
"just who orders the linen?"
we might well ask,
"is it a patient or a member of staff,
or surely a bureaucrat who cannot count,
or maybe some Eskimo from a nudist camp 
with a frigid behind matching his jacket,
taking showers on the hour
with a sense of humour not appreciated
by those whose slumber is medicated 
and whose needs demand a charitable warmth,
indeed, at least to let them sleep away 
the warmer part of their awakened day..?"

6. Meetings

Meetings, meetings and more meetings,
and never a patient is seen;
meetings, meetings and more meetings,
forever discussing patients never seen;
meetings, meetings and more meetings,
remember to write those nursing notes:
"Patient went to dinner, sat on veranda,
noted to be watching the television..."
as seen on the surveillance monitor...

7. That New Nurse Florence is on the Nightshift

That new nurse Florence is on the nightshift
swinging her torch to and fro,
and all the ward is on a sleep chart,
and each patient is duly documented
with startled eyes wide aglow...

That new nurse Florence is on the nightshift
swinging her torch to and fro,
and all the ward is on a mood chart
and every disgruntled patient
soon lets her know...

That new nurse Florence is on the nightshift
swinging her torch to and fro,
and all the ward is on a bowel chart
and all the visiting patients are asked
"did you go, did you go..?"

That new nurse Florence is on the nightshift
swinging her torch to and fro,
and all the ward is on a weight chart
and at dawn the overweight were made to stand
with feet not too far apart...

That new nurse Florence is on the nightshift
swinging her torch to and fro,
and ward by ward the patients cry out,
"I'm asleep, I've been, weights guessed in kilos,"
and certain words you just wouldn’t want to know..!

8.  Activating The Patient

As the visiting consultant its one of my roles
to activate the patient...

As the resident psychologist its one of my roles
to activate the patient...

As the occupational therapist its one of my roles
to activate the patient...

As the activities coordinator its one of my roles
to activate the patient...

As the group facilitator its one of my roles
to activate the patient...

And when all these busy professionals have gone home 
as the nurse its one of my roles 
to deactivate the patient...

9. The Dinner Bell

For God's sake don't ring the dinner bell,
its not yet time,
for God's sake don't ring the dinner bell,
its not yet time,
you will be trampled in the stampede,
you will be eaten alive in the riot,
like magic the whole ward will salivate
over an array of empty plates,
can't you read, can’t you read,
`five-thirty, five-thirty,' 
and you must not be one minute late..!

10. Colour Coordinated Meals with Matching Accessories

Once you could tell the time of day and the date
by looking at what food was placed upon your plate
for stews were colour coordinated to the day:
a mournful black on Monday, a somber gray on Tuesday,
a sea-green dip on Wednesday, a braised brown steak on 											    Thursday,
although with a faithful fish and chips on Friday with 											       lemon;
sausages in the morning for those dissenting Protestants,
and a mildly-hot red stew in the evening succeeded
by an orange Navarin of Lamb on each second Saturday;
or a thickly sliced corn beef in unvarying alternation,
as with the Sunday roast of turkey or a portly, pickled pork,
rounding of the week with one more indeterminate soup,
or a little something more thick and kaleidoscopic,
average food for all but the anorexic or the insensitive connoisseur,
until, that is, this Catholic hospital on that day 
of reckoning, to save its bloated budget, went Buddhist 
with a medley of vegetarian treats like wobbling terrines 
with rippling streaks in a vivid red and green 
that made good old Aussie tucker look much less obscene..!

And as for accessories they are colour coordinated too:
tomatoes with spaghetti, potatoes with the tripe,
hard-boiled eggs with the corn on the dead-looking salads,
green peas with the curry, over-fried chips with the steak;
and, brown potatoes hashed for breakfast
with the sausages also a bit bashed about, until, 
that is, the hospital also decided to dance `The Continental'
and decreed a hot breakfast was just not healthy,
and decreed an uncooked breakfast was the best design,
putting in an some balance below the belt, so to speak,
helping to resolve and improve that bottom line...

11. Time for Afternoon Tea

Time for afternoon tea
with the occasional random treat,
but today, alas, again, once more,
those packaged twins:
two dry old biscuits,
one - plain, and, the other -
with a touch of chocolate chip,
for that is what is said 
so proudly on the cellophane;
with a printed prayer 
on the packaged sugar
and hoping the milk has 
not yet gone off
I raise my pottery cup 
to those unseen gods,
those clever accountants,
who worship ways to save 
on things whose true cost
cannot be measured 
on the ledges of the heart
of these poor souls 
who need to feel 
that they too possess 
some human worth..!

12. Unity in Diversity

Unity in diversity,
diversity in unity,
do we want a set of clones,
mere carbon copies of each other,
in replication each time
made more virulent,
don't you see
the dysfunctional
is non-chaotic,
in comparison,
each `admission' then
a slick trick learnt 
from the previous one,
so predictable,
so perfectly the same
it barely deserves 
to be written about,
other than to say -
"see the previous notes,"
ad nauseam.?!

13. Discharge

Through these gates once more I come
in a stately regal style,
this time supplied by the Crown,
and not my friend Mission Beat...

Yes, Doctor, I promise 
to take that same old medication,
to consent to E.C.T.
should I feel like it...

No, Doctor, I will not run away,
this time my feet are just too sore
having left my shoes behind
that you so kindly locked up...

You see, Doctor, today
I don't feel too well,
mother nature is deserting me,
old age is catching me up,
does it matter that 
I might be Louis the XIVth. 
and don't speak French,
or be the Son of God
who believes he's an agnostic, 
without a stomach,
soon to be cut out
along with half a lung
filled with the ash
of ten thousand cigarettes..?

Doctor, doctor, doctor,
let me feel a little sad,
my much mentioned death
is only a rumour,
a little exaggerated,
let me sleep some more,
this delusion of pain
is only a dream gone awry,
a nightmare when I wake,
a dangerous game when I forsake
the sanity of my thoughts;
phantoms of desire delivered
through the literal letters
of an alphabet 
that spells out 
a clinical reality 
that I feel must be, 
must be not...  

With funeral flowers
beside the bed,
and the smell of gardenias
waiting at the gate -
once more transported in style,
unnoticed by this sleeping body
growing cold within 
this wooden crate...

10. Look for the Message

Look for the message, 
it must be there,
every text, every poem
walks with words 
in a certain direction,
every text, every poem 
talks with words, 
each a chosen gesture,
every sentence - a ballet,
each step designed
to stalk the way it will,
each action within some act,
the signature of a scene,
the resolution of many motives,
some open, most unseen,
each decision born from indecision,
a set of shadows in the shade
flickering this way or that,
then a choice is chosen,
perhaps a choice selection,
an economic performance razor sharp,
committed, as if without effort,
staged with style, and pointed,
or, an artless art in empty rhetoric
where what you get `is what you get,'
nothing more, nothing less,
where what you are left with, 
in subtraction, is merely 
the contents of a proposal,
a proposition made in passing,
or worse, that there was none intended,
as if there was no-one at home,
a text without an author,
an envelop without a letter
merely posted, with an address,
merely sent but not delivered,
with one hidden message 
that should have read
‘that here there is no message,
that here you'll find none;
like a mere bubble drifting
towards the sun..!’

11. An Ode To An Ancient Chinese Cooking Pot (Ting)

A common cooking pot, and nothing more,
indeed, even less, made for mere ceremony,
in shape roughly fashioned in a geometry
already forged those thousand years before,
its rusty surface impressed with a score
seen only by the dead in that cemetery,
endlessly cloned, twinned in moulded progeny,
what sacrifice shriveled within thy store?
At what cheap price did this cauldron first trade,
at what great cost now bought in coins hard-earned,
mere marks on slips of paper that forbade
my travelling, that left one trip adjourned,
to old Cathay, where past and present played
in dreams that my spirit alone discerned..?

		********************

"To wax or not to wax?" 
that's the question,
or should nature be left 
in its installation
to weather the way it will, 
corrode and crumble,
fall down unhindered, unheeded, 
or should we feel the need 
to make objects less mortal, 
more immortal than the name
of their makers, and their owners, 
imprints preserved in traces tricked 
into transcending all seasons, 
perhaps for only an aeon,
defying those grains of reason 
that will one day, finally, 
trickle away, and die 
amid those sands of time 
that will inter all 
but the mental shadows 
of compounded things,
when, even at the end 
of this fickle world, 
now seen as mere one among many, 
the thought-forms 
of possibility too 
will be vaporized 
in the mind of this local god 
called `human destiny'..? 

In such thoughts I let 
the unseen pages of my book 
slip from my hand, 
and upon this table 
rest my heavy head, 
my last fading vision being 
of this archaic cooking pot, 
proudly standing on its three legs, 
its lid replaced carefully
upon its eroded brim, 
the setting sun contrasting 
its imprinted patterns 
with its patination
in a rainbow of tones 
from the colour of blood 
through a glorious gold 
to the powdered purity 
of a peaceful sea-green 
tinged with streaks of white...

In the distance I thought I heard 
the sounds of tears crying out 
in the wailing and sobbing of mourners
around an old person's cold body,
woven linens dressed in jades,
rudimentary in their fashioning, 
yet mandatory for the loved one now deceased, 
his bier - a simple cart, 
its motivation - a group of servants,
happy in the thought that these days
they would be returning,
heading towards a pit already engraved 
within the soil, entering the soft rock, 
all soon to be bricked over and covered 
once more with tufts of swaying grass
now sited upon a small mound;
in front of which, despite
the continuing warfare, one soon 
would find oneself being addressed 
by a rock framed tablet 
that, even if left unread, 
you knew ‘said it all’...

But now that mound 
has been worn away
and that grave dug out 
by peasants in the dark,
and these simple goods 
of the dead sold on
through discreet hands 
that forget they touched...

The morning sun is still rising 
and I find myself walking nearby,
through these undulating fields,
heading towards an old temple,
with individual, internal spaces 
each not much bigger 
than a single room,
painted out in frescos from the Tang,
surrounded by small pagodas 
also in brick 
and a fallen forest 
of drunken steles
with chickens and the odd pig 
just past the mended pretense
of a rustic, wooden fence...

On finally leaving from 
this age darkened sanctuary 
I am met by a seller of eggs,
with wonderful eyes 
and a toothless grin,
who, like some mother to her son,
insists he should partake 
of just this type of meal,
and enjoying the haggling lets him win,
a price not too far from the local fee.
Then taking ten eggs I return six
with a tip equal to her entire basket,
and with a smile thank her 
for looking after this shrine
and letting me enter without cost
for in my guide book pictured 
with the same smile and clothes
I knew this person, by herself, 
had converted these few rooms 
into one barn filled with hay 
and run through with pigs and chickens 
who through their daily use 
guarded it from the ravages 
of the red-guards rampaging 
over this same antique land
more than two decades ago.
She laughed when she saw her picture
and without a moment's thought
gave me the leftover contents of her lunch
wrapped in the clean remains 
of a tattered plastic bag:
one peach, one pork dumpling,
a piece of omelet and the last two chunks
of Revolutionary Chocolate,
a meal whose taste even today
I still fondly relish...

For a few seconds, 
for so it seemed, 
I shut my eyes and, 
on their re-opening,
found myself drinking tea 
in some concrete village hall.
All round me old menfolk sat, 
some with sons,
others with grandsons, 
in other corners 
women congregated 
in their own way, 
all to talk and also listen,
for the travelling story teller 
has now arrived, 
and between the rush 
for ordered snacks 
and new pots of tea,
seats himself up upon 
some low wooden crates,
framing him for a stage, 
and half-seated 
on some ancient chair
in a sing-song voice 
filled with poetry
takes us all back to other times
never seen, yet, 
never quite forgotten.
Leaning on my shoulder 
a young student whispers 
in my ear English words
in interpretation 
whilst I in repetition, 
on recognition, 
give them their 
more correct pronunciation.
And so for some hours this story
is unraveled for me, 
strand by strand,
scene by scene, 
in the noisy silence 
of this professional performance,
forgetting that I was a foreigner
in this fabled land, 
one vast country
still listening to its roots
however weakened 
in the destructive solvent
of these modern times...

Now I feel the breath 
of an asthmatic breeze
icy cold upon my cheek, 
like fingers of steel,
yet soft like the silk 
in satin sheets,
beneath my feet 
the crushed fragrance 
of different pines 
greet my every stride
up these ten thousand steps 
struggling to climb the twists 
in this sacred staircase,
the unpredictable turns 
of this living ladder
seem one impenetrable barrier,
yet for the pilgrim 
an open invitation 
to come and embrace 
the infinite space of heaven.
Little temples sprinkled 
along the way, 
and in the nooks 
and crannies of other paths,
many still standing in ruin, 
suggest you stop awhile 
and forget your ascent 
for that moment,
before you reach those plateaus
between these peaks 
that seem to go on forever.
Walking for a day, 
with passing pilgrims for company, 
I am pleased I went this way,
forsaking the hotel for a hostel, 
bypassing that western restaurant
and that bus still left there waiting,
when the next day I took my return
in the already hard-earned pleasures 
of another downward dropping track
that took me back once more
to the reality of the town, 
and thence, the city...

There the emperor once sat,
with two orchestras to hand,
one music more official,
the other less official,
in imitation more emotional,
in keeping with the mood 
of the celestial master.
Here a garden in retreat
that still could not forget 
the presence of the formal,
with pavilions for reading
those papers of state
annotated in vermilion.
Over there a small lake 
where kept ladies of the court 
played out dreams of fishing
looking like goddesses 
gliding on gilded clouds.
Over here a library with one book
in more than thirty thousand volumes,
edited by scholars, 
censored by the emperor,
where only the invited went to read,
precious fragments from the past
tidied up but never 
completely reconstructed.
Somewhere else a living showcase,
a temple filled with chanting monks,
offering prayers for an uncaring state
out scaring others, what else has changed 
I know not but for this fact 
that other rituals will one day return 
upon this imperial stage
albeit it in a more modern cloak...

Near the central Altar 
of Heaven itself,
a little fearful that 
the bored guards chatting
might my thoughts read
I silently clapped 
my hands together 
beneath my held jacket 
and dropped one stick 
of unlit incense
in the hope that soon a spark 
will rekindle this nation,
returning itself to its past
to find what it must not forsake,
to once more re-transform 
the true dragon within...

Celebrating this simple dare
I find its time for lunch,
taking exotic treats 
on plates of plastic,
perfect imitations of Ming,
as seen yesterday
through walls of glass...

Along this lengthy avenue,
through these courtyards,
I have come to pay my respects
to that great master
only met in texts;
more re-edited hearsay 
than dictation,
yet still stamped 
with that insightful mind,
whose mindfulness 
sought a prince
and instead found
a band of disciples
that finally won 
the countryside
from the capitol
in all its many shifts.
To sacred Confucian music 
the tourists listen
for the first ten minutes
then want to wander
uncomprehending 
of the supreme honour
of being in the presence
of his ancestors
both before and since...

The lake is crossed by causeways
too long for bus driven tourists to walk,
best seen in the mist,
a better screen for hiding
those smoke enshrouded 
factory chimneys
sighted in the far distance
above these ranks
of weeping willows...

By the Grand Canal I travel to Suzhou,
in the evening light I can see
old ladies watering their geraniums,
sweeping court-yards clean
before the night-time meal,
couples walking and talking
oblivious to craft floating past,
the laughter of a row of soldiers
arm in arm leaving their barracks,
a solitary old man with a white beard
like an ancient hermit 
perhaps only just retired,
still surrounded by a few working folk
cycling with bundles and piles
of goods already trundled by truck.
From the low deck in the intimacy
of the gathering darkness 
I chew upon some dried fruit
and with wistful thoughts imagine
myself as that art-loving emperor
meeting his southern subjects
with suggested gifts 
in the form of scrolls,
and other prized antiques
and antiquities 
that would have been best 
left unmentioned, only shown 
to more treasured guests
and in such reverie I wonder 
what since has been lost 
in the hands of those persons
even less sensitive...

I now enter a famous garden
modestly titled in paraphrase
`A Fisherman's Cottage,'
its entrance most unimpressive,
then through a set of formal
reception areas with screens
and small windows 
with contrived fragments 
of the garden hinted at 
just around the corner.
Past the upstairs library
through one more door 
I, at last, catch sight 
of the central lake 
with different levels of roofs
informing the privacy
of a world of corner pavilions
and the like all framed 
by aged trees dropping leaves
floating like boats
swept along by the wash
of golden carp hungry
for endless novelty.
Slowly wandering around 
I seek my temporary escape 
in a hidden courtyard 
with contorted rocks
tended by a resting gardener.
I smile, as he smiles,
and with a gesture of the hand
praise his efforts
for making this garden look
as if uncared for
and, once more, 
truly loved 
at the same time...

The potter spins the wheel,
and from the shapeless mud 
a pot takes shape,
nudged into the form of a vase,
perfect in every proportion.
Another hand takes it
from its rotated platform,
and with one hundred others
leaves it to dry.
Around the corner
one more hand informs 
the painted surface
of an exquisite bowl
in underglazed blue and white,
soon to be fired,
like that one on the shelf
that could have graced
any one of the palaces 
of the most discerning emperor,
complete with the appropriate
imperial reign mark
lest you mistake it 
for one merely stamped 
"Made In China"...

At
the thought 
of having to head 
towards the airport 
serving Shanghai,
some hours or so away,
I wake to find, instead, 
myself now walking towards 
The Great Wild Goose Pagoda
in the Silk Road town of Xian
and paying an entry fee climb 
the spiral staircase within 
the grit and gloom of its grey 
confines to view the graffiti 
of the ages inscribed by scholars 
and traders, travelers and
mindless tourists, filling in 
blank spaces with their signatures 
upon these sacred walls. Alas, 
there below once stood an enormous 
monastery, one factory whose 
purpose lay in the skilful, accurate 
translation of Indian Buddhist texts 
by the thousand, over many years, 
and find in that labour of love 
a better monument to the golden spirit 
of those ancient times than this 
soaring, solid tower heavily repaired, 
leaning inwards, yet looking outwards 
at the emptiness of this scene mostly 
shattered and scattered in the dry dust 
swept along upon the winds of eternal change...

Is nothing lost,
in the churning of history
is material matter merely re-shaped
in re-discovered images
from the past,
like clouds forming
and then disappearing
to re-form again once more
over this mountainous ravine?
The swollen river below
having eroded these walls,
alas, will need to do that 
one more time
if this river could be dammed,
condemned by that hand
whose brushwork
has signed this picture
of its fate
until nature itself undoes
this senseless blot,
soon to be imposed, upon 
this celebrated landscape...

In a ship of dreams, 
myself recollected,
I see myself waking
with this unread text to hand
and returning to my studies
find I have found inspiration
beside the presence 
of this enchanted pot.
Better left untouched, I think,
best left unwaxed.
What needs my help
when it should outlast myself
once more by twenty-five centuries?
If the soil itself beneath our feet
be left alone to grow
those grains that once graced
that offering offered back
to the ancestral spirit of that corpse
whose dust has now long vanished 
without a trace, 
in its place only a muted echo 
can be heard when the face
of this thin cauldron 
is, once more, gently struck...

		*******************

A common cooking pot, and nothing more,
indeed, even less, made for mere ceremony,
in shape roughly fashioned in a geometry
already forged those thousand years before,
its rusty surface impressed with a score
seen only by the dead in that cemetery,
endlessly cloned, twinned in moulded progeny,
what sacrifice shrivelled within thy store?
But now behold and see how age transforms
this bronze with patina emerald green,
tinged red and gold, magically informs
us how those cruel times, with wars obscene,
once also knew an inward peace that storms
upon this stage peacefully in between...

12. Finding Refreshment in the Richness of Reality

Finding refreshment 
in the richness of reality
today retrace those steps 
made many years ago,
along this careful path
I now trample forth into 
The Valley Of The Waters...

Soon I discover a new waterfall,
one I didn't know about,
this conjunction of creeks
masking two small drops
over the same stratum of rock,
making a series of pools
begging to be swum in,
seemingly undisturbed 
and as naked as the day 
they were born despite 
concrete stepping stones
and a thin wooden bridge
floating over its chasm
further along the track...

In the somber gully
a part-time creek becomes
a staircase of dripping tiers
embroidered with an array of moss
like some primeval sponge 
ready to be squeezed...

As if in a mirror,
and shrunken in the wash,
this water pours forth 
as if unconnected
beside these falls
down through solid rock,
no doubt aged 
and cracked
and in turn 
ready
     to drop...

Here pictured
are the most beautiful 
of all the falls,
from the track 
the bottom 
cannot be seen
and the tops 
are hidden 
in the branches 
of the trees,
painted between 
the leaves
is the falling rain
of a cloudy sky
in a thunderous foam 
thickly splashed
in brilliant white...

Running and tripping 
on the way to the altar
these thousand riverlets
of descending water
make a veil in virgin light,
ornamented in a filigree
from the fronds of emerald ferns,
in turn dripping with diamonds,
soon all to be taken off
in the darkness of the night...

Even the edges 
of the gorge 
are dripping,
with butterflies 
looking like errant drops,
circling the precipice, 
refusing to fall
just yet,
on the breeze 
finding the scent of others
dancing in an ecstasy 
beside these rocky pinnacles, 
threatening to soon tumble 
also within the week...

Hear one perfect note,
repeated differently:
how this bird can sing.?!

Cathedrals of treeferns
stretching upwards,
also singing eternal praises,
in an ethereal chorus 
most times too subtle
for even the wind to hear...

The trunks of trees
looking like 
the faces of people:-
smooth and shaven,
rough as the old
weather beaten sailor 
without a razor,
pimpled with nodules,
textured as if rock
or like a long necked giraffe
suffering from goitre,
in every colour;
white and black,
red and yellow,
grey and green,
in every size;
short and fat,
tall and lean;
the mouths of 
hollow boles
and knotted lips
no doubt 
smiling unseen 
at this daft 
comparison...

Mushrooms of every shape
welcome too late
yesterdays rain,
with plastic caps and capes
in a bewildering fashion
in accordance 
with species and season;
in social circles
situated in 
the best location...

Today I see my first snake in situ,
a slim, sickening grey-purple skin
shinny and exhilarating to watch,
expertly gliding up the bank
through and over and around 
the rustling of the leaf litter,
thankfully going the other way,
and thankfully too, 
in not too much of a hurry...

On a lonely, over-hanging lookout
I slowly approach the edge
and with some reluctance at first,
at the thought, project my voice
in one long shouted 'cooee'
towards the distant rockface
across this gigantic gorge
finding myself met with, in surprise,
many, many more echoes
than I had bargained for, 
some, in a variety of accents,
and discover in the process,
in the wilderness around me,
that I was not alone...

At the top, in the restaurant,
dripping, I take a wash,
and seated, wait to dry,
choosing a cool glass of orange juice,
finding no simple snacks for sale,
nothing other than formal meals,
digest instead the daily papers...

Finding refreshment 
in the richness of reality
today retrace those steps 
made many years ago,
beyond this careful path
I now tramp those streets
that take me to the station,
still some distance beyond 
this near vertical wilderness,
and that wonderful greenness,
found in that wealth below, 
in that treasury of the world 
that breaks all conventions;
to be found bubbling up 
within this realm simply called:
The Valley Of The Waters...