The Cicadas' Lament

  

Sally, my sister-in-law, half-sat 

half-lay crumpled on the 

front steps sobbing a prayer, 

the words of which I will never know, 

the sound of which I will never 

forget

Her dress was soiled with blood 

and water, and at four months pregnant, I 

instantly knew the terrible truth of her travail. 

I could only glimpse the horror but 

Sally saw all the dreadful desperate 

destiny

Her sobbing tore the air and dislodged 

the sky and when she saw 

me approaching, her sobs 

turned to wailing. My heart shifted 

on its pinions and I was 

undone

I rang for an ambulance, relieved

I didn't need to explain much 

as the operator heard the commotion. 

It's strange how we are thankful for the 

smallest gifts of grace in times of 

trouble

How do I render assistance without 

crossing a relational line? Will there be 

forever an awkwardness between the two of us? 

The uncomfortableness of sharing such  

personal calamity in such an intimate way 

made the air between us heavy

Bird-song and traffic noise muted, 

light lost its gleam, the sky its gloss, 

nature changing its demeanor, 

grieving too at the loss. 

Sally's low keening now the only sound, 

except for the coarse choir of cicadas 

lamenting in the murrayas.

MDC 20/10/2020

Early morning walk in the woods

 

Light, strained through a sieve of stalk and stipule, 

slides across stone and sand, sinks into casuarina epidermis  

and satinash skin, silently sheening every surface 

The air, corpulent with whisper and sighed susurrations, 

softens the breeze to a zephyr, its hushed insinuations 

settling tenderly upon spirit and soul

Steps slow, solid with rumination, neither slothful nor sluggish

Intentional, considered. No need of rush, aimless by design

The sparrows in the tea trees forming a chorus line

The bluing sky signals the cessation of the dawns caress

Not quite soundless, but quiet nonetheless

Mist beginning to clear from the air

Echoes of bird song bouncing off a dam’s mirrored shell

not so much an alert to other life, but a gentle compelling

towards other conversations

This alla breve breaking the reverie and quietly reminding me 

there is work to be done.

MDC

April 2021

The Ploughman

He ploughs her field, breaks up 

her fallow, tills her furrow,

seeds a dream of longing and 

hope. Brutal, physical, pain and 

anguish - from which arises fruit, 

new life, unaccountable joy and 

years of anxiety.

Again she willingly subjects herself 

to his ploughing.

MDC

Dec 2020

Reef

There is a shoal in my lungs that catches 

my breath every time you walk into the room

Sometimes made of coral, craggy, easily 

snagging my attention to the watery 

waves of your silk. Other times it is 

rocky, bursting asunder the hull of my heart

so I drown in your presence.

And when your stormy winds blow, though

my ears fill with foreboding my eyes rejoice 

for the coming aftermath of honeyed calm.

MDC

Dec 2020

Scarecrow

Reaping from what’s been sown, 

I eat the fruit of loneliness; abandonment

my only asset. Left to stand in the rain, 

rooted in solitude, torn by the wind which 

whips my pleas into the whitewashed welkin, 

clothed only in the rags of disrespect and 

condemnation, my vestments mirroring the 

vitriol of my accusers. I am judged for ineffectively 

managing my role - keeping my field clear 

of crows. But at least they keep me company.

MDC

Dec 2020