Writer and Artist
Music Man
On a Broome beach
I’m staring at the horizon
seeing in the sea
black shapes
he passes uncaring
floating, strumming
his two naked children dancing behind
dispelling despondency
banishing bleakness
I follow like a child of Hamlin
barefoot on grass he sits
and plays for the moment
for his children caring
not for the madness of mankind
not for fashion, folly, possessions
kneeling, worshipping
in songful celebration
of the sinking sun
today.
Achiltibuie
The green slopes of the croft reach out to the Summer Isles the Hebrides blue beyond behind black mountains stand guard over the bay in summer twilight reflected islands change hues with evening glow on the shore beyond the ancient graveyard a skeleton a wooden boat still clings to ropes and nets disintegrating with the light on the headland crofts embrace the sheep that once tore the land with tears.
Umbilicus – 1985
You long to feel the purity of life bereft of man’s possessive greed and live in peace as God intended or so you say.
Is this your truth or nostalgia of youth clinging from distant Scottish slums where promises of purity and peace hid reality’s repulsiveness.
Purity seemed absent when ideals of my youth were crushed under the weight of your pragmatism your fear infused with bitterness.
I seek not the role of critic but fear hypocrisy an umbilical cord I drag attached afraid to cut.
Afraid of absence I had choices I know life robbed you of yours wars, pandemics, depression.
Pig-in-the-middle young carer for grieving mother younger siblings, absent father let go what's past.
Won't you share your imperfections accept mine open your soul I have a need to see.
Same blood, same sex shared love for all that friendship absent.
A friend who shares with joys and triumphs losses, failures pain.
I too would shed the bindings of society as years go by the snare grows tighter.
No more excuses I must decide and soon I have two sons our legacy who pray.
Will feel the purity of life bereft of man’s possessive greed and live as God intended.
Tuncun ba
Tuncun ba Dugong place where opal ocean penetrates coupling with country each tide offering plenty today, promise of more tomorrow.
Tuncun Ba Ancient place nurtures ancient animals in grey-green bush generous banksia gives succour to brilliant birds the wild bee hides honey high in the bunya
No more the wild honey bee no more the timid wallaby no shelter pines plantations stand in stiff dark rows silently sucking life from land no more fish, oysters, crabs.
Prawning fleets rape and leave pleasure craft bestow sewerage, plastic seek plunder elsewhere hushed the sound of noisy joyous birds heralding the coming of dawn.
The sun now sinks in sorrow no birds heard above the screech of shells the thunder of tanks men learn to use their war machines where once was peace no more Tuncun ba now they call you Tin Can Bay.
The Grave on Lowe Isle
Beneath the vine-scrub tree where pigeons coo a lullaby and palm trees sigh by water’s edge stone arms enfold your decayed body your heart space clasped in clam-shell hands reach for a far-off land Calling.
Adventurous daughter what led you to this tiny cay? voiceless stone confounds who venture to this dot of sand did you possess a soul that wandered in futile scientific search though body surrendered remaining with the nidicolous pigeon Calling.
Exiled sister did you shed suffocating bindings of Victoriana a suffragette escaping exchanging the satin cage for mud, mould mosquitos did you leave a mother Calling.
