Ess
“our layered world” – John Allison
the sun dies to the estuary replaces words as if it ever needed . . . as if we . . . might be explorers mud closes around bare footprints the ooze and pull – oh to be a mollusc to be what’s next . . . how to let go of guilt at clinging onto what others haven’t Small waves fold and shush crush a crash colours undulate lines they scape of the sun all morning * staring into carpet wrapped in a blanket at the end of a word-jammed day summarising reports for the computer’s blazing eye the clock’s numbers the reader’s unseen fingers * first cuppa after yoga, journalling the haunting cold like the echo from an empty shed you, the child left the womb the sea the bed to wriggle into dawn light Humid turn the corner fold like a wet shirt into steamy woods and lake watch noisome coots black swans interrogate quiet hands for food (without so much as a beep-honk) minds drift, water evaporates kids shout greetings about bright clothes from across the water * 3 a.m. wakeful rain slides through the courtyard you hear the silent sun ask questions between trial and error day and day heat surrounds your body as lightning threatens branches rain down you tear off your shirt to the downpour I’m still here, you wail at the centre of the edge The river and the still falling half-fathom willow green leaves drag the stream bed emerald black backwater under pussy willow where blackberry hunts the eel hovers, facing upstream shimmering like wet rock deep cut under the bank eels tussle you hear them from the camp wonder if a fish above, below waterline the only distortion that momentary parallax as one meets the other body bath the eyes see this or bend with perception best a lens, a mask to view crayfish bigger, cockabullies brown trout, green bellies at night, the brightest of all latia (limpets) give off their bio-luminescent slime to distract predators – it floats away in bubbles Sel “Back to our real selves” – Oz Hardwick wandering the burras the villages spaces between like worms in the bank dancing to a band in the musical air from stage to woods – what will the wind do with notes and beats? birthing unbirthing waves how waves unfold stiff limbs how mother will stroke your hair I don’t want to let go of the moment covered in wet clay I refuse to let go of the moment throbbing with sound I give up the moment thrashing the ocean Note burras – Cornish dialect for the mounds of sand that are one of the waste products of china clay mining Provider oxygen, shade you’re cool across lands shelter, timber home for moss, lichen, epiphytes insects, birds preying mammals you mark lands nursery crops receive bee blessings worms, mycorrhizal funghi fold a cushion of mulched leaves for fruit in my dream you’re the mansion prepared for me where I lay me down under boughs The island of the dead Inspired by Ethel Spowers, The island of the dead, 1927 linocut, printed in coloured inks, in the Japanese manner, from seven blocks. where the dead go to find peace in their blues & greys green gold light they don’t see each other they have each the island accepting solitude alone able and enough a relief the total tangible at last the unswollen tide seeps in takes them drowns them in glint eyes no different to sun stars the choicest pebbles on the beach they pick them they don’t have to take them home any more Bio: Owen Bullock’s most recent publication is Impression (Beir Bua Press, 2022). His other titles include, Uma rocha enorme que anda à roda (A big rock that turns around), translations of his tanka into Portuguese by Francisco Carvalho (Temas Originais, 2021), Summer Haiku (Recent Work Press, 2019), Work & Play (Recent Work Press, 2017), and Semi (Puncher & Wattmann, 2017). He teaches Creative Writing at the University of Canberra. His other interests include juggling, music and chess. https://poetry-in-process.com/ @OwenTrail @ProcessPoetry
Fevers of the Mind 