“But I always think that the best way to know God is to love many things.”
~ Vincent van Gogh

Sunday, January 14, 2018

My Name is Rosemary

"Never let anyone
shorten your name,"
said the Sage.
"You need Mary
for your strength."

And since then
I never have –
though, before that,
I liked Rose …
being a rose.

Mary. I ponder –
The Great Mother?
Or the sea?
(Rosemary means Rose
of the Sea.)

Mary the Mother
endured all things,
and was brave;
while the sea
is ancient, wild.

My namesake plant,
that resilient shrub,
has a fragrance
not sweet, but
faintly salt-tinged.

"Don’t," I say,
"call me Rose.
Friends call me
Rosemary." I smile,
and they comply.













Also shared at The Poetry of Three: three words per line on facebook.

In Fading Light

Cool evening, after
day's heavy heat.

I linger on
my top step,
for the breeze.

A faint rumble
might be thunder

or a car....


Linking to The Poetry of Three: three words per line on facebook

The Smell of Home


The smell of home is a gum-leaf, picked off the tree as I walk beneath, crushed between my fingers and held to my nose, deeply inhaled … then discarded. Plenty more where that came from!

















Summer Driving in Northern Rivers

There is nowhere to stop.
This photo is just for me, 
in the camera of my mind. 

Above the mountain range, 
banks of thick, frothy clouds
echo the mountain shapes. 

I round a bend. On the hill, 
a stand of Norfolk Pine 
rises black against the sky.

(Where are you? Where are you? 
I want you here beside me, to see –
though you wander free ... 
and in tunnels of my mind.)




Thursday, December 21, 2017

At Your Engagement Party

To Adam

I kept taking photos of
your gate-crasher, because
she couldn't resist the music, 
drawn in through open door 
of the party restaurant
to where the guitarist sat, 
in a corner so he wouldn’t be crowded. 
It was all those 
liquid Spanish tunes. How 
could she have refrained, how ever,  
from dancing?

And she was so bright, 
in her shiny, slinky, green-and-yellow dress,
and she clicked her heels Flamenco-style,
and clapped her hands over her head.
And she kept apologising, softly, shyly,
in her foreign accent, but 
she didn’t stop dancing, didn’t stop twirling,
didn’t stop brightening further –
as if under a spotlight …
creating her own spotlight –
the already-festive night.






















(She gave permission for her photo to be used online. 
We never learned her name.)

Grand-daughter Requests

Grand-daughter requests help
with her maths homework.
I try. I can understand
the graphs, and confirm
her answers are perfect.
But ‘experimental probability’
is a foreign language for me.
I know what each word means,
but not together, and not in maths.
She is kind when I tell her,
‘This is far beyond me’; requests
I not worry or blame myself.


Wednesday, December 20, 2017

Rain Falling Hard

While I watch on TV
the scene of a British day
with black umbrellas raised
against pervasive rain –
at the same moment, here
in Melbourne, Australia,
the sky outside thunders
while heavy rain and hail
pelt the suburban garden.
Later the news tells of floods
and landslides. The world
is beset by storms. We prepare
for the coming Christmas.