THE BIRD ARTISTS

When my skin no longer fits, I carry a bag of bones,
to the edge of the ocean. I steal the breath from a gull.
On the beach a mother bends to help a young boy
bundle up a baby cormorant. I watch as they cradle it,

hold a wing into the air and fling it eastward.
I thought you could teach me how to fly. I made you
out of sand dunes and red clay. My husband sleeps.
I conjure up you, Merwin, and you, Merlin.

Palm trees and ancient words, a black cauldron
of seawater and fire. You spread the fan of the cormorant’s
wing and arrange your pigments and brushes, stroke

each feather with woodland brown or green.
I feel my skin begin to loosen. I pick away the lice,
curl back the sclerotic welt of paint.

Laurie Byro

THEIR HOLY HOUSE

I never knew their pain head-on, but must
have sensed it in the way I felt, inside
that house, each dawn: that I was not
where I was meant to be. And now I find
a photograph of their adored abode –
just sent to me – published in a book: its

caption cooked and loaded with what
they most dearly wished for – and to have
the world believe: evidence of circumspect
serenity and art up every shingled sleeve:
my mother as its sole maîtresse. I’ve
wondered all my sentient life what I might

learn to bless as much: the thing to which
I might bring my own passionate and
practiced touch – and why I felt the less
for my intransigence – and incapacity to see
and love as they saw, loved. Whose
hands were gloved – whose hands were

bare? Who longed for naked skin – who
didn’t dare? I can’t assess their dreams
more than to say they danced to different
themes than mine: they were a different kind.
They chose a spoon, I chose a fork.
They had their holy house. I have New York.

Guy Kettelhack (GuyBlakeKett)

NO RAIN AGAIN

A chandelier of stars adorns my sky tonight.
So clear and bright, there is no need for moon.
Yet I would rather see the clouds rain liquid diamonds,
making glorious mud beneath my dusty boots.

Hot winds sear the land and parch the soil –
temperatures still soar and tree sap boils,
making River Gums, with parchment leaves,
explode like New Year pyrotechnics.
The fires rage across the land and still no respite
from the heat and still no rain.

Smoke blankets bush and city both alike –
no place is safe, no place to hide.
Ash colours all creatures, equal in their grief
for this, our maimed and suffering land.

Vickie Farquhar (Midustouch)

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