[ 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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