Without permission
The morning trickles in
Puddling sunshine
On my skin.
From beneath these sheets
which aren't mine,
The world drips with green.
Green of the scaly-breasted
lorikeets
who lived at the creek
at the bottom of the garden
And green like the chipped paint
On plasterboard
Of my old bedroom.
For weeks the ground trembles
With the trundle
Of the army dump trucks
Up and down the streets,
Scooping up
Our mud splattered and flood scattered belongings
to hide them from sight
in some gaping hole
in the earth.
From higher ground
People remark
That it must be nice
To have it all cleared away.
For these new rains
which flush
The mud from the roads and the walls and the trees.
But I still find it in the rim of my glasses
And in the pockets of my jeans.
As the adrenaline simmers down
I find myself
scowling
at sunny days
too buttery and warm,
and at the figs
with their new flush of green growth.
For daring to grow.
It can be hard to recall
The Before.
Before the endless hours on hold to centrelink.
of scrubbing mud and mould
from studs and beams,
of scrapping paint
until my wrists ache.
I attempt to
gather together the pieces of my life
like the puzzle
we found
scattered down the hallway.
All warped edges and mudstained:
Unrecognisable.
On some days.
when the sky stretches up into
an infinity of blue,
I draw the curtains shut,
and prise the mattress
from the ground.
Face against floorboard
breathing in the darkness,
I am grateful for the weight of something
holding me here
in my body,
lest my mind begin to ricochet
I imagine I am a layer in the sediment
laid down across the floodplain.
Skeleton stripped bare by fungi and worms.
Lithified bones -
not a memory,
but a fossil.
I find comfort
in the weight of geological time,
implacable and irrevocable
pressing down upon my shoulders.
Sandstone and basalt.
Polystyrine and gyprock
On other days
there are glimpses,
feather light,
when my attention catches
on the edge
of something beautiful,
And I remember to take refuge
in the minutiae.
The coil of a python
Rippling waves of scales
Silk
On tarmac,
Tracing elegant loops
In the sludge.
A carefully cross-sectioned kiwi,
Sliced with a sharp knife
And held to the sunlight -
Stained glass
Of imperfect symmetry,
A tiny universe
All of its own.
And of course there is music,
Bowed and strummed and thrummed,
Plucked
From the air
Like coloured threads
And woven together
So for brief moments
We share a glimpse
At what harmony feels like,
Ephermeral as it is.
It can be hard to remember
As we are thrust deeper
By the trash compactor
Of human vice
Into the endtimes,
That there is more than
Ash,
Asbestos,
And avarice.
Landslides,
Landlords,
And the liberal party.
There are still seedlings
And birdsong
And orange polenta cake.
So I'll pull tight the laces of my steelcap boots
Listen out for the lorikeets,
and paint the walls green
Anew.
Trees not Bombs poetry night, March 2022