What would have been
the poem for you
has become an
over-riding sense
of the day – taking it
for granted, as one does,
with its drives, its houses,
its office – all the
non-specifics by which
looking back, a
huge sun-lit series
of changing moods
like grooved flat space
becomes a bare plain,
a wide riverless upland
under a lowering sky
which might be precipitation
threatened or passing over
or a storm building its
folding and unfolding
cabbage-leaves flung into
measureless altitude
in some dream
mountains. Cabbage, that is,
and acanthus. And
the mountains? Are they
mountains? Yes, the ones there….
The ones which ripple up
confused with cloudbands,
bulging across the skyline
like wadding or
insulation bats coming
loose in a roof. The
mountains are
both barrier and
points of escape, whether
going into them or over them,
offering their sublimes of
amethyst depth (sunset)
and exhilarating breath-
inhaling sunrise
salutations of
viewpoints (views where
we linger as if first light
will never shift, as if the
aquarium of specimens
will never empty, the ground
never be fully
exposed); or they’re
the promise of a
country farther on, which
must be better, more
riverine, calm beyond
words or exclamation –
a “sea-change” valley
where black swans float
like silhouettes on
permanent silver water
overhung by paperbarks
whose boughs are
mirrored in shallow
translucences while
across the fence ginger-
toned cattle trundle
through deep grass, plantain,
burdock and reed clumps,
leaving overhead
a few inland pelicans
to anchor their
beaks and gullets
way across in the blue. Having
crossed the mountains,
there it is – beyond thought
and desire. That said,
this is a day brimmed
with both those things –
impulses, wordless concepts –
too many thoughts to think
and aching desire and not just
mountains, frustrations,
plangent memory: all the
elements of the everyday
mind. I know no
moment free of them
once I have left
rare meditational calm
which is a brief, settled
state (how to stay there?)
even though, when in it,
I can hardly get up
to open or close a window
or switch on a fan and
it renders boiling an
egg an impossibility.
2
Your poem is no egg.
Perhaps, though, it is
a smidgen or diminishing
imperceptible degree
closer to one than
any act of language
which somehow must
carry unbearably complex
feelings, intangible
depths of response and
an agreed way to think
and behave —
all out of order with
the intrinsic simplicity
(yes, I’m talking about
love again – really, yes – )
which shines through
every moment of
reflection on loss or joy.
Perhaps, rather, on their
memory where it would
be good to get the connector
between them: there would be
no drift, there would be
certainty in the system
and an adequate balance
of information: night-fall,
bird-twitter ceasing, the
rise of cicadas and frogs
like a border or fringe
holding an instant darker
world together, neither sad
nor ecstatic. Did the egg
hatch just now? did
ancientness and its im-
measurable swathe of time
allow the instant to drift
apart like the continents
are said to have done,
trapping each of us
in a few molecules swept
nowhere in surf, glitter, dust?
Good to be at one with them,
to bless them and be blessed.
3
I work all day and in
the night – at last it’s come,
cooler, not too heavy, almost
free of worry – I stay up to
add some words about the
stillnesss of a down-hanging
branch of flowering
lemon-scented gum –
it dangles over the
back verandah
beckoning gliders and
possums to their mutual
love of mouth and blossom,
nectar and shoot, their
leap, screech, squeal –
a pure ease with vacancy
out there beyond the
tree’s glimmering net.
Across the gorge a shooting-
star goes down behind
the mostly patchy range whose
fires were months ago:
the star glitters a second,
two seconds, being debris
or satellite or some meteoric
flotsam, through leaves
and powdery flowers
outlined looming in the dark.
Alone, the poem’s climbed that
rock-strewn, twig-charred slope
finding its well-watered land. It’s
for the future. It feels.