Posted in Truth


Sunday, the seasons are confused
the hope of spring, the maturity of summer,
high sun, perfumed grass, proud rhododendrons, ball games
the chill of the tackle has yielded to the warmth of bat and racket.

Couples stroll, dogs strain on leash
children pendulum through afternoon light.
High octane happiness shrills from
arcing swings and indefatigable flying fox.
An earnest footballer mindful of next season
or attempting to atone for the past
pants around in circular penance –
no blood, invisible tears, much sweat.

Stepping through the curtain of trees
into an amphitheatre of quiet
no noise, no flagrant joy, no ball games,
or spirited sibling tussles … but competition, different and serious.

A triangle of optimism and heartbreak
three vertices, two female, one male.
Just as cells synthesise cure to long extinct pathogens
middle-aged men activate the instinct of comparison
he seems rather plain and unprepossessing.
From the camouflage of distance speculation is fact.
An announcement :final – no appeal.
Two people leave … perhaps it’s only imagination.

Intuition is ambivalent, counselling retreat
anxious to be proved right.
I move into the space now filled by one
grief’s DNA splashes down her face. We both look away.



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.