Saturday, May 4, 2013


A mother is yellow,
a sundial.

She is the window
where the soup
is cooking.

In darkness, she calls
from the landing
to bring sleepy eyes
up stairs for storytime.
A kiss with no explanation.

Mother is flour & ginger,
butter & creamy beaters,
knitting in the basket,
pulling you round
to put your cardigan on.

Mother waits in silence
no matter how late the clock.

She is an old love, as
soft as autumn rain
that slips through your fingers.


Mother is sugar
the heavy jars
of marmalade
who wants to put
back in the cupboard
all the years
it has taken
to be a body
to travel.

Rag-time for Mother

One too many stories,
one too many truths.
You didn't steal the school bell
You didn't steal the glue.
The ants took all the breakfast,
the raisins are what’s left.
The cat's drowning was
your brother's wicked bet.
A friend your brought at Christmas
now wears your satin dress.
No, it isn’t what you wanted.
It isn’t what you'd choose.
She owes you fifty dollars
and hasn't paid her dues.
This poem is a present,
besides red socks & shoes.
What almost happened, won’t now.
Let's sing away the blues.



Published by Australian Poetry Centre, Melbourne

of Arc & Shadow

of Arc & Shadow
Published by Sunline Press, WA

The Joyous Lake

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