Yabby Creek

by T.M. Collins

 

By glassy water I garnered my thoughts and saw a

reflection of something glinting, a mirror

at peace, silver surface not tarnished, but lustrous.

Light reflected, flickered and flaunted itself.

It posed here there, peeked in a crevice, seeped

over to a little gorge, then rather scantily climbed

the bank face, leaving a display of silent shadows and silhouettes.

The light was looking for something, climbing

up, down and disappearing only to reappear.

Constantly changing light and shade patterns etched

primeval messages across ground and water.

From gentle cuff slope to steep of banks

gloomy figures appeared as light shimmered, glimmered.

The light wavered, hovered about, forever alone, lost.

 

- third canto

 

To the Wild Cherry Trees

by Adam Johnson

 

As I live and breathe,

Help me to love this day,

Knowing my host may rise

And will not let me stay

 

To gather my vague ambitions

In your branches like birds –

These untidy phrases

A few homeless words

 

I cannot hold this fear

Nor can I come to terms

With the reality of death

That the morning reaffirms

 

I watch the cherry trees

Unfurl fresh buds of pain

Now they have touched the sun

Tomorrow they are rain

 

Death of a Friend

by Mani Rai

 

He’s gone,

his death sudden.

I wonder if he called for help

or wished he were with someone.

When they found him

behind the door,

it was Kathmandu

not Paris in the 60s

where he dozed

under the Eiffel Tower

obscured by shadows.

 

That was a youth and Sandhurst

that was the Second World War

that was home leave for the first time

that was a walk around Flanders.

 

He was a dresser. Fussy about food.

Impatient with fools. Quick to anger.

Then, 1976 came around.

He returned home

“to die” he wrote.

“Heart attacks and paralysis

can’t be controlled.”

Never went far after that:

we’d go to him

and argue.

 

He’s with the Thaba Sambang now.

It’s twilight in our world.