Seven Poems

The Kettle's Bubble-Making Floor

Who remembers the bitter
smell of smoke still in the house
the sunny next afternoon?
So recently smoke was everyday.
Who remembers the woolly
pink inside a burning peat?
The taste of tank water boiled
in blanched, black-shelled cast iron?
The pucker of water heated with
ashy stones in a wooden dish?


The Moon Man

Shadowy kangaroos moved off
as we drove into the top paddock
coming home from a wedding
under a midnightish curd sky

then his full face cleared:
...