Poem Category: All

In the hills
the last train whistled
the town’s goodbye.

In fog
the quick brush with ferns
a touch of birds.

In sunrise…
a frog on a lily-pad
green of itself.

Bay shallows
stabbing for any young thing
the old man Ibis.

The peddle canoes
gathered to rest
at low tide.

Being alone
with them across the valley;
magpie echoes.

From the black on white
the crow leaves
just the snow.

Carrying our canoe
deeper into the lake
yesterday’ s rain.

In meadow frost
the way the brumbies’ necks
cross each other.

At the mountain spring
her kissing lips
on the mouth.