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| Poetry ~ Page Two |
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| THE INVITATION The wine is expensive. The nibbles divine and Daisy Hill is comfortable as she talks to one friend then another, in clothes she's carefully chosen to hint of an exclusive design. Over the years her friends have fluffed and settled like household pets and never had the type of life to be aware how someone may purposely honour them by attending their inviatation - would not know of her anxious balancing beforehand, the cost of her acceptance, against the size of the sacrifice made. She smiles. Gave thanks and promised the phone calls as she waved goodbye, and went out into the night where the road is wet and the oncoming cars are a continuous queue of blinding light and drives, until wistful memories of her previous life change over to the anticipation of being stunned all over again into disbelief to be opening the front gates to a farmhouse and it being her home and it being her land, and those will be her goats lifting their heads to call from the hill. |
| THE COMING OF BABY ARION Margaret felt the tension in her neck relax as the minister's voice rose and fell in the familair and welcome words of worship; and as she knelt for the first prayer gratefully eased the pressure from her Sunday shoes and thought of how each week life seems more rushed and she is more tired; the number of years John and her had been on their own should have brought less duties, more spare time: her eyes lifted to where the late sun shines through the Memorial window lighting up, like rare crystal the etched figure of Mother Mary curved to her baby, the Baby Jesus and Margaret's soul reached out for her grandchildren who never arrived when her attention was waylaid by a lit mote in a leaping ballet, a sole dancer in the slant of sun across the darkening curch - a spark of fire that flits and zooms like a heartbeat of joy in minature and her voice caught in a voiceless prayer "Please Mother Mary, grant a grandchild before I die." Eventually Margaret became aware she was the only one left on her knees and as she slid back onto the pew the choir and organ swelled in volume then paused, to leave one sole soprano voice, soaring up, soaring up to the very height of the gathering arms of the Mother Mary. |
| THE OLD PUNGA WAITS THEN DRIPS THE RAIN EXACTLY DOWN MY OPEN NECK |
DEW SPARKS ON THE GRASS. THE QUICK FLITTING OF SWALLOWS AROUND THE PALE SKY. |
| Some poems from the book: Daisy Hill - home is where the hat is. |
| HOLIDAYS ON THE FARM After dinner came the goodnight ritual to stand on my grandmother's chair and reach into the shadows of the lead-light cupboard where the sweet jar stood I hoped for Bon Bons or Blackballs because they can last (if you suck carefully) from bath time to bed; a fine slither lingering after the room went dark then I'd listen to frogs, the Moreporks or maybe count stars. (morepork= small New Zealand owl) |