1957, 1959, 1964

Three old diaries

sit on my desk,

three pale red, red

and light brown books

small enough to

fit in the palm

of my hand, so

small little could

be recorded,

like three bubbles

of the gas that,

stuck in ice cores,

tells us of the

air long ago,

but nothing else.

It was a time

when I was young

and life had not

yet unfolded –

would be nice to

know more than that

I was breathing.

After the tavern

The end of life

is like the end

of a good night

out. A group of

friends leave the light

and warmth of the

out of the door

and head for home

along the dark road.

As we travel,

one friend after

another turns

off, waving and

calling goodbye.

Until, at last, it

is just you, on

the long road home.

Treading lightly

Summer is here,

in the middle of

Spring, with the

first warning of

bushfires, and the

first moment of

almost treading

on a snake (a cute

baby Black, but hey

a snake’s a snake).

In winter I stride

across the land

(though always

avoiding ants, and

beetles, and spiders).

I walk differently

in Summer. Slower,

more carefully,

each foot

landing lightly.

Concentrates the

eye wonderfully

knowing the next

step could be your

last. Is that what

makes us Australians,

I wonder, such a

cautious tentative