Hay Season
by LYNDAL TURNER The slow boil of summer dusk, a blood red sky darkens and drains to black behind the precise silhouette of trees and the outline of hay; rolled, wrapped and stacked along the fenceline. In the distance, low…
Longer Poetry
Read MoreHay Season
Tiger Tiger
by LYNDAL TURNER In the orchard, the air was cooler and a kind of verdancy teased at the ends of our hair. Industry buzzed and wheeled between the branches and sweet fruit hung in globes as bright as any strands…
love shack
by YVETTE STUBBS slodging through floor detritus and old toilet paper rolls we’ve forgotten what it’s like to be civilised, and we are getting to like it no bras, no undies, no care saving on shampoo and deodorant too. yeah…
The birds are restless again
by YVETTE STUBBS The birds are restless again a haze of smoke smudges the mountains crows fly with starlings curtaining the air with feathered fear where is the fire? Are they doing controlled burnings near? I am restless now Birds…
It’s NIGHT
by YVETTE STUBBS Night owls prowl It’s snowing in Scotland The sky is black I watch house hunters abroad on mute Timer to go off in 60 minutes It stops the chatter in my bones It’s night Cicadas rasp their…
The one that got away
by PAT SAUNDERS bream bite when the tide is high the tranquil river mouth gasps for air kissing the rapacious windy wild sea its swollen banks our sunlounge as we patiently await the serendipitous nibble the line requires little weight…
Busselton Jetty
by PAT SAUNDERS dad’s calm hand clutches mine his southern british lilt coaxes tiny crawling snail-like me onto ancient timber planks beneath which grasping wind and wild water wait to swallow me look up he says I baulk glimpsing whitewash…
Bus Stop
by PAT SAUNDERS I step forward without looking feet float arms flail head somersaults swim through air the world spins more than once colours slomo stretch endlessly ears hear nothing not a sound landing’s hard butt and hip hurt badly…
Sandstone Gorge
by JANEEN SAMUEL In this place is silence: would that the world could listen and be so still. There is no stirring of trees nor grasses; the pale-eyed lizard either is motionless or swift as a flicker of thought –…
Look, it’s the Noosa everglades
by MARGARET OWEN RUCKERT where forests of strap-plants, edge-loving land-dwellers, conceal the swamp beyond & vie for space like flags in a crowd. No rationing of water or sun in paradise. Water is tropical here, but rarely topical. A bow…