Poem Category: Australian

Storks at low tide …
old men wading
in short shorts.

What fantastics
my shadow has
with the camp’s fire.

sunrise windows
music on dust beams
floats from the room.

foggy streets
the warmth of our bones
to walk in.

circles of the web
unwinding another thread
from the rear of herself.

dawn stirs
the moon the frost crackles
in a puddle of ice.

thrashing their turns
in our garden pond
the golden carp.

dusk begins
drawing Aquarius
out for the night.

Apple orchard
the fruits turning cider
in the hot north wind.

Squatting in the fog
the silence of numbats
grooming their bushy tails.