Monday, 19 November 2012


            For Diana.

In the early dawn I felt a touch,
Heard a soft voice whisper “Come”;
A pause and then that voice again:
“Your race you have now run”.

I shook my head, withdrew my hand,
I weakly whispered no.
How can I leave this woman
Sitting quietly by the window?

O Mr Death I cannot come!
Gaze upon this sweet vignette:
Morning’s growing light is
Softly framing her silhouette.

She and I have things to do,
Loving not yet completed,
So now I hear my own voice vow
“I will not by you be defeated.”

When you some other time return
I must indeed merely follow
And so doing say goodbye to this
Quintessence of joy and sorrow.

But now I feel the warmth of her touch
Make your cold grip fall away,
And weakly turning towards the light
I embrace once more the coming day.

Sunday, 11 November 2012

Fraser Island

When I visited Fraser Island Miranda's island from "The Tempest" came to mind. That island was full of magical sounds and I heard that magic on Fraser.

Miranda heard magical music
In percussion crash of wave,
Heard it tinkle in treetop
And echo from distant cave.

Now those same sounds I hear
On this realm of purest sand,
Without pebble, rock, clay or loam,
This beautiful Fraser Island.

It softly and sweetly sings
From serpentine streams so clear
That the mind is forced to question
“Is this water or is this air?”

It murmurs in the mangroves,
The blue of upland lake,
In banksia grove and pandanas plant,
In the forests of coastal she-oak.

It crescendos in the rainforest’s
Green palms that densely entwine,
Its soaring white towers of blackbutt,
Its spotted beauty of Kauri pine.

It sounds from eastern waves
That daily wash from their sand
The countless tracks of the 4 wheel drives
That scurry upon the land.

And even though on the morrow
That traffic will again resume,
Closely following the tide will sing
Its lyrical, relentless cleansing tune.

O gently, gently each day
The attendant tide comes in
And with song of ease and grace
Makes everything pristine again.

Then the magic that Miranda heard
Ripples or crashes in the sea,
Or in the high, bright notes of the treetops
Makes songs of exquisite beauty.