A grey and heavy Tuesday
sprawls to the horizon;
the window might open onto a courtyard
filled with colour and life,
but never does. I want to drive a nail
deep into the clouds
and hang a bright collage across the sky,
a crinkled hymn to day and night.
But try as we like, we’d always know
that the moon is just a lump of wood,
the sun a crumbling dried flower
and the stars only shiny little stones
hanging by loops of string
from the spindly branches of a tree.
We see ourselves like reflections
smudged in the back of a spoon,
two changing people in the same clothes each day.
So we rush on like open razors,
cutting open all the things that might have held us
while we grab a feeling or two
from a book as we pass by.
Now there’s noise in the courtyard,
but the spoon needs washing
and the brittle sun slowly drops a petal.
(from “The God in the Box”, Agàpe Publications, 2003)
Poetry, poem, speculative poetry, science fiction poetry, Australian poetry, British poetry
