Posted in Love


Summer, always denoted by genotype
winter is anonymous
bundled together like old newspapers
and binned
but each summer has a unique identifier :
The summer of
Star Wars

This was the summer of South Australian claret
clink chic, never brimming to fashion –
a past’s, passing fad.

We were very young
and newly formed,
had nothing, only hope,
anorexic wallets and obese dreams.
Two thirds of a generation older
perhaps she saw vicariousness
her own optimistic beginnings,
a decade and a half earlier –
still the 60’s –
still swinging,
“ ooooh the stories I could tell you.”

Sometimes she did
with a glass of wine.
She knew we had little money,
often contrived a reason for us to visit
and always a glass, or two, of South Australian claret.



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.