Poem Category: All

a late fish catch
my daughter and I
row for the dark shore

mountain lake and clouds
beside the mirror
my back-pack pillow

now cicadas
in quiet returns
to the earth

dawn colours
drawing the detail
to each fur and leaf

make-up mirror
in drawing her eyes
to the girl’s-night-out rain

our suburban trains
seventy years from
the bells,fires,steam and smoke

the swans glide in
their immense journey
on a wing and a need

next to the dry skins
baked fresh peaches
cooling in their juice

storm flashed thunder clouds
swirling thumping winds,
out in it a frail me