Drip, drip, drip

As we grow older

small invisible

pores form in our skulls

and from them (like holes

in water tanks) drip

thoughts and ideas,

and memories of

recent times (being

closer to surface

of the mind), and wit

and concentration,

and names of people

once known like brothers

and sisters, and new

appointments, and old

research written by

me (apparently).

Quite soon the tank of

my mind I thought so

full will empty, like

dams drying in this

fearsome drought of my

old age.

Dust to dust

A harsh westerly

wind blows outside

my window.

Reminding me that,

wherever you are

in Australia the

desert is never

far away. The dust

from the centre

brought by winds

from north, south

east and west,

permeates our

garden, house,

enters our lungs,

becomes part of

us in the way

stardust from distant

explosions becomes

part of us.