|Ada Cottage Writing|
You sip Malvern for your health, I Fosters for mine.
Of course he's thrilled - chuffed - bowled over -
Cigars all round!
And your London adventure's over -
You'll be heading back home home.
My beer mat is sodden, the ashtray desolate -
You are still.
The diamond-blue ice we have glided on has cracked
And we can hardly tell which shore is nearer.
Hazel on grey we lock eyes -
Wanting the heat of a gaze to melt the route we came -
But unasked question elicits unspoken answer,
And the weight of our silence shatters the ice ahead.
The water is black,
Your water is gone.
I trace patterns of the future in spilt beer.
Some Sydney Sunday afternoon in a year or two,
On MacQuarie Point you'll push the stroller,
Linger in the shade of lilac Jacarandas,
And watch the life on the glittering Harbour.
He'll point out the green gold Taronga ferry
As it muscles through a cloud of scudding sails -
And when the child claps in joy
Or stares mute in wonder
Will he notice,
That it's my eyes taking this all in?
Whilst in a clothes-strewn bedroom, in an unmade bed
Flanked by cabinets laden with half-read books
Ring-stained by half-full coffee cups,
I'll taste the night's rich red wine on my thick tongue
Breathe in a perfume of sweat and cigarettes
Take my weight on my elbows and rise,
And as I feel claws carve angel wings on my back,
And hear my name gasped -
Will she notice,
That it's her accent I hear?
|First attempt at emotional poetry from the male perspective. Not autobiographical, I should stress (in much the same way as The Harvest is not). I like to think that the endings are deliberately ambiguous, but just "huh" may be a better word.|