Posted in Rituals

Null and Void

The Realtor said very few properties were this private.
it was, like living in a small park – especially in summer,
step inside the gate and
disappear from view.

I was out the back – at the clothes line, hot
November sun
still an adolescent
the adult of January and February yet to flex muscles
but testosterone brimmed
feeling proud, how a farmer once described ram lambs.

Something caught…. slipped ..
dropping … regained
held in the mind’s palm. . . . turning it over..
familiar –
birds, traffic, construction … sounds
sound –
the gurgle of a baby known immediately to its mother
the soothe of the mother known to a baby.
The slap of door on frame
hushed – muffled, but… I’d know it anywhere.

They are in the conservatory
the door to inside ajar – it might have been me
two people
a young woman – smiling
and a youth unsure to run, or raise fists.
She is practised,
he, still learning.

It’s so hot she says, I was wondering if I could have water.
I oblige. She thanks me
nothing more is said, we both know the score –
I don’t inform . . . . and they won’t return.
Thieves’ honour
we’re all safe.



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.