Mran-Maree Laing



Travels with My Father

My father was insatiable salt, pickled against his maimed leg and mislaid love with litres of cheap whisky, smoked joint after joint until the cabin was a cave and there he squatted by the fire trying to make sense of …

Posted in 80: NO THEME VI | Tagged

Inside Quietness (Söderlund)

I wake: only the wind curls, the rise and fall call of the whip bird the white curtain billowed with light. Everyone is sleeping. The quiet house accepts my footfall the way a winter forest accepts a solitary deer: coarse …

Posted in 60: SILENCE | Tagged

Last Morning in the Country

Out of the morning— the yawning blue, sleepy-eyed morning where the leaves rustle like bed-clothes and the fence-post crows drip rippling notes into the steeping silence— rushes the wind. I stand stooge in the paddock—dozing a dream of childhood paddocks: …

Posted in 59: GONDWANALAND | Tagged

How to Drown

As we fought for the third day, about something I no longer recall, your voice turned to water, to a sound I had never heard, wet and hard and cold, water from the bursting gut of a cloud, water from …

Posted in 59: GONDWANALAND | Tagged