A social site for poets in Sydney.
The rush hour trains pass, packed in yellow light,
Electric eels slithering North
On the first evening of spring.
Fleecy cotton clouds still warm the earth
As impatient shoots part their yellow lips
To exhale & patch the polluted air.
In this small enclave sloping South,
A young woman in jeans sways & walks a little black dog,
Two schoolboys slouch across the road,
Bags hanging louche from their shoulders.
A middle aged lady with bitter lines
Down each side of her face watches them
From her verandah, unpicking the years with foxy eyes.
Eight of my friends have died or are dieing in the last year. This includes some I grew up with in Broken Hill, some of the 'generation of 68', some that I just knew. Good people, not so good but good fun, bad people that I loved just the same. Seems like it's time to think about it.
The last time i was seriously ill was when I…Continue