Without you

The child view of the horizon
is like a half moon
caught in a sombre sky
unaware of the light of it's full capacity.

Arrival

In the shadow of a suitcase

the map starred, stars calling

back

heart beating

back

history calling

back

darkness, leaving no stain, calling

back

the shadows of the memory

the breathing of the forest

the heating of the rocks

have uttered the heartbeat,

beckoning

come back.

Listen

To those
who tell me that a little child
cannot see the far away letters
on your shining testing machines
that she needs expensive wait your turn specialists
in the streets with fixed statistics and incomes
when
most of the children in this country are
swollen bellied hungry,
vitamin deficient,
smoking drinking beating parents
careful
put your head down
the drums are beating

to those
who tell me that a little child
must please put back the books
in the squeaking clean bookshop
full to capacity with expensive coloured books
she is disturbing the system
when
most of the children in this country
will most likely never have their own coloured book
waiting for the non arrival of a text book
learning under strikes and limited light
eyes strained
walking far to buses and lifts in the dirt
careful
put your head down
the drums are beating

the dividing line is cracking
the dividing line, is cracking.

For Ashlee

Another night
another fright
in the hour without witnesses
where, in the hot breath pillow indentation
do your dreams go?
bits and pieces, what we wore
a letter to Father Christmas
a favourite walk on the dust dirt road
blinked out
blinked in, under stars
swallowed down, the First Picture Book of Poetry
as the nausea creeps closer
the puppet show monster
the world through the wrong side of a daylight telescope

For Natalie

From a rock collecting fairy queen
strong beyond belief
against dark nights, shadows, thorns
my little star child has broken
shattered into pieces, alone
in the never ending traffic lights
breathing down on her
the lone child
the brave one
has become lost
floating in the screaming sea of faces

The Belonging Bubble

The house does not come as a surprise
it is where I would build a house
where anyone would
where a magician would throw down
a brick and mortar casserole
of happiness, paused dreams
no regret, silence
a recipe for the foundations and the finish.

With the ease of an eagle
taking flight from the cliff behind that house
as the border marks a new province
my breath slows
and an identity of belonging
rests easily back on my strained shoulders
like a well worn, familiarly scented
beloved shawl.