the colour of our lives

poetry • celebration • faith • nature • humanity • imperfections • glory

Archive for the tag “hope”

where i live

a gargantuan step in the crust of Earth
where archaean granites fell, infinitesimally,
for miles; water and wind, grinding, wearing
a hinterland westward fill the giant breach,
layers stacked, mud upon sand, over, again
a thousand times and a million millennia of
the debris of ocean and land. We walk, live, love
and die on the latest of these; droughty bushland
is rampant on this skin of dune and swale, while
the tired river dreams of a raging, humid past.

WAin the summer, an east wind
the temperature of human blood
pushes the gasping air of the desert
across suburbia, fading as it smooths
weary Indian Ocean swells rearing
glassy over ancient coralline reefs.
As the land cools towards sultry nights,
cool humid sea air rushes in as respite to
baking dunes and sweating humans, before the
warm stillness, full of night-creature sounds,
blankets the humming city before dawn’s
desert breeze returns.

atmosphere inverts, and it is winter; thunder
roars with the start of it, rain-soaked west winds
having howled unhindered from the Cape of Good
Hope to punish and soothe the brittle land. The
weakness of trees is culled; waiting seeds,
crouched in humic sand, sacrifice isolation
and autonomy to erupt into air and sunlight,
littering the gritty soil with green.

I love this place with a longing, never
belonging passion, as far from patriotism as
soil and litter from the headlong surges of
human power and commerce. But, land I love,
still you leave me homeless, tease with sparkling
rock, with wild marsupial eyes, with the
strangeness of it all. There are no nests, no
foxholes; you have taught me well that
my rest is of another space and time,
another beauty more other-worldly
than imagination or hope.

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signs

tolimanI know a man in my street who
every night opens his front door
and wanders out into the night, where
the tense, crouching roar of the city is
mercifully interspersed with the
soothing hiss of wind-teased eucalypts
and gentle nocturnal songs of courtship.
Walking around his car, he checks
the windows and doors; satisfied in
its security, he steps out from under
the eaves, head up, searching the sky,
eyes drawn to bright Toliman and
Achernar, high in the southern sky.

He straightens his neck, lowering his
gaze to the east, to city lights lighting
up dusky, gold, on the waiting clouds.
As he secures his house once more,
in a silent farewell to the small creatures
of the night, I hope that, one day soon,
he finds the sign he seeks.

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imagined conversations with my adult daughter

  • Do you think it’s weird, you know, that I’m your Dad?
  • Nope.
  • Ok, cool.
  • Dad, it’s gotta be a minor sixth for the harmony!
  • Oh, yeah, sorry.
  • That’s more like it.
  • Remember when you were about eight and I started wearing that ear-ring again?
  • I wanted you to take it out … I still do.
  • Oh.
  • There’s this guy at church … he thinks you can only read the bible properly in Greek.
  • Really? – what do you reckon?
  • He’s such a bonehead, Dad. Sorry, but he is.
  • I love trees!
  • I like it that you’re into the environment, like your mum and me.
  • I would’ve been into it anyway, Dad.

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