in the house there are
scents of gardenias and tuberoses, even stronger in the night air. The
thundery change never eventuated. But the evening has blessedly been cooler
- enough to sit outside on the decking, watching the sky go through its
sunset paces. Overhead dozens of fruit bats, the size of large-ish birds,
lazily flap south-eastwards in ones and twos, some emitting a faint
high-pitched call, others low enough to hear the soft swooshing of their
flight. You can tell they are bats by the points in their wings. I wonder
where they are all headed? Nocturnal little creatures, they have been
asleep hanging upside down somewhere north-west of here - maybe in the
botanic gardens, where hundreds of them spend the day in a whole rainforest
section, like tiny parcels dangling off the high branches. It stinks there
though, and underfoot the paths are slippery with their shit.
(20th Feb 2000)
Waiting - A spring haiku. November 2006
The David Wang Syndrome - January 06
AND YET - A poem, February 05
A crop of quince - August 04
unphased - A poem, July 04
Periphery - A poem, 3rd Nov 03
A
wedding - conducted
on an
islet in a lake at the bottom of a great wild garden
On the architect Walter Burley Griffin and something corky
- could also play with an exchange on the subconscious ... creativity ...
... in a way continued on room to dream
Book review: Reading the Holocaust
Book review: The Myth of Male Power: Why men are the disposable sex
