Dreams And The Apocalypse



   [ Winter in '82 to Hell in '83 ]


    Finally. They have their dream pole-house in the hills. Mists, sweet air, transitory marsupials. Pot-belly stove that sings. Doesn't get much better than this. Then everything is just flames. Flames and helicopters - tooga tooga tooga - apocalypse now. Dreams are like that, totally combustible.

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     PRE DAWN QUIET 

I like the pre dawn quiet
before the world gets up
especially after rain
when the eucalypt forest's hard-green softens
to a drip-clean fresh soft bird chirp
new beginning day
when for a little while
you can set your own coffee sip pace
and take in the privilege
of being there 

I love Aus
love her with a true and deep passion
that is personal beyond flag waving
I'm unashamedly one-eyed about this
southern-cross aged place 

I strangely resent the first law of Nature
that destroyed an entire culture of black people
so that five generations hence
I could look out from my balcony
at their land that is now mine
that was never theirs, nor ours
and yet
I'd rather be dead than give up Aus
to anyone 

    T.R.E. (1982)

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   WINTER SOLSTICE '82 

crisp cold morning
up before the sun
promise of a fine clear day
everything damp
sides of hills frosted white
green and clean and with a hush
of clinging mist
like it must have been
when these ranges were young 

white faced herefords
and a solitary jogger
breathing steam
golf course knee deep
in slowly rising dew 

a hint of pink
around the rim of the world
valleys turned into white lakes
bird noises all crispy clear
but people noises growing
until they finally take over
re-possessing the bits they want
until the roads and the houses
and the power lines
become as noticeable as ever 

    T.R.E. (1982)

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     SPRING MORNING '82 

the world seemed brand new this morning
it always does after long-awaited rain
so clean and fresh-smelling
all earthy and damp-hayish
dripping crystal drops
from the bottoms of green apricots
and regimented rows
on the underside of gutters
and snails everywhere
reclaiming their lost paradise 

it's not often enough I feel I belong to it
part of the natural order of things
moving freely and in harmony 

is such peace and stillness of mind
meant to be so transient? 

    T.R.E. (1982)

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    SUNDAY AFTER ASH WEDNESDAY 

yesterday, Sunday after Ash Wednesday
I guess like so many the same
I was trying to put it all
into some kind of perspective
there was I and mine
in an oasis of untouched green
in our lane of quiet hopes and homes
surrounded by the sudden black
of the dark side of Nature
that had lashed out so indiscriminately 

what did it mean?
nothing has no meaning
and yesterday as I raked my leaves
in quite ridiculous defiance
of a force that would've swept me and mine
aside in a few minutes
had it jumped the ridge
that same thought came to mind
as when we buried Nana 

it’s how well we struggle that counts
and not what we achieve
it’s how unquenchable the human spirit is
for all its broken dreams
it is always still a beautiful world – somewhere 

but not for the people
on the other side of the ridge
for a little while 

    T.R.E. (1983)

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   EIGHT WEEKS TO THE DAY 

eight weeks to the day
since Ash Wednesday
you can’t help but marvel at the new green
sprouts of gum leaves everywhere
on blackened trunks
forests of blackened trunks
that so few weeks ago looked like a cemetery 

each morning driving down
the green has spread a little further
not just the trees but the ground too
the ground with its skeletal rock bones
all exposed, all so bare, all so black
a bit of rain
some cool misty-morning days
and it’s all going green again 

oddest thing was the flowers
just three weeks after the fire
there they were, all around the burnt-out shell
of this ancient old cottage
that had seen a hundred summers
surrounded by its tangle of English garden
the garden was decimated
but up popped these bulbs
looked like agapanthus
a splash of pink around those bones
of someone’s heartbreak
it seemed like they stood up
stretched and yawned
looked around and said
hey, where did everybody go?! 

if the people ever come back
at least those flowers will be ready 

    T.R.E. (1983)

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      FOR SALE 

I’ve walked away from too many homes
too many gardens
too many jobs
too many people
too many of all those things
that make up a segment of a life 

each time we move on
we leave a piece behind forever
never able to be recaptured
and sometimes the sum of all those pieces
seem larger than the new growth
that comes with the pruning 

it’s time I let the tree grow
in its own way
to sit back and be able
to watch from the distance
of accumulated years
without intervention 

I just feel I’ve moved on
once too often 

    T.R.E. (1983)

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