They speak of stridency and of nothingness
and wrap up their shoulders in grey light.
I want to walk again in this miry place.
I want the fever and fret beneath, though
it’s something I forget, like pain.
Sky, a tent immaculately pitched and noon’s
ghosts are creeping across paddocks.
Low, lame winds grow in the rushes -
the smoky pool mad in its sleep.
I have
found earth still adhering. I wait
for storms
to crack the glamour open.
I don’t know the language of this country.
It begins in mists, sombre wild bees.
Moss
sophistry while I lie listening.
Dark snake
rumours grave in my ear.
Butterflies edged with wonder. Sly
harrier, cool stealing the day.
A wraith’s
day - slow and gentle and ravaged.
This whole calm world’s sweet venom.
My puritan soul half in a sea, clawing
deep
in the presence of mud.
Emma Lew
Richmond Australia
1997 © graffito