The sky is pregnant with clouds now.

They scud, tumble, threaten rain,

bear down on hill tops,

shed splatters of ridicule.

They mock me, and

trees bend with laughter.

The wind derides, rattles

white-boned witch-doctor leaves.

Owl yawns pretending boredom,

opens one eye in annoyance,

ruffles his inexplicably untidy feathers,

then folds his wings on the day.


Yet I know I saw rabbit cower to his burrow,

robin hide her head beneath grey wing;

heard the possum snarl his displeasure,

and the old protective vixen

yap her protest to the moon.

Tree spirits, their grotesque arms entwined,

swayed in a spectral dance, while

restless shadows flung tongues of darkness

into secretive stone corners. I heard the chant,

I heard it, and the responding call;

strange voices that echoed down the valley

of the hidden folk. There, where a manes

is seen on the night of a full moon…


I heard the whisper of wings

as the mage, dressed in his feathers of owl,

flew to greet the great witch-wind

on her return from the desert.

I heard the curlew’s call of despair;

he had known what havoc

would be executed in that midnight hour.

He had heard her wretched song

(where the two ridges meet) felt

her breath…still carrying the deserts heat.

In her rear guard the sound of menace

had rumbled across the hill hidden sky.


Laugh if you will my pretty trees.

Mock me you dark sulky clouds

with your spears of fire and your spittle.


I know what I saw and heard last night!



Four in the morning!

Plates dance a tango, glasses trip a light step

upon polished wood. Stainless steel lids convulse,

clatter against stronger bodies.

Iron pots hold their stance, refuse

to join in the fracas. Eggbeater belts a retreat.

Waving wooden spoons

conduct an abstract symphony.


Silent feet, deft hands spin spices from

solid shelves into confused conglomerations

of yellow, red and brown pools where

peppercorns puddle with coriander and mustard balls.

Earl Grey rains black deluge, joins rice

in its rambles and flour frolicking on the floor.

Expresso coffee maps Italy and

plastic bags futter over all.


Torch light searches, gathers in its beams

big black eyes that blink, unconcerned,

perhaps unaware of a foolish four o’clock foray

into uncharted territory.

Perched upon its pedestal the ring-tailed possum

stares with careless curiosity.

All the while, above it all,

your framed, photographed face smiles!