Weighing the odds
Time turns us into historians
Then history waits at the door
You remember the voices
Of the sea. How they spoke
In the fathomless language
Of Atlantis—roars for evermore, evermore.
You dream of dancing
(Did you once?) like a Cossack
From leg to leg, stamping eloquence.
Walking is a shadow of what it was, once.
All your reflections, beyond
The names that evade
Your memory—the faces remain
Like the leaves, burning in autumn light.
Passing in the bus
You watch the young
Latecomers, catching up with history.
Dutiful and distanced, at Pittwater
The moored boats
Are all aligned
In one common intention
Toward the horizon
Depicting dusk, sunset, dawn, sunrise
Pointing toward one wide arc of time
Dutiful and distanced, like
Worshippers of the ascending
Descending, variants of light
Like prowed congregations
Drawn to a celebration of light;
Moored to the moon
Moored to the sun
Moored to the stillness—
Congregations of middays and midnights
Now surging on a swell, swaying in unison
A metronome of masts, moves
Rolling forward and back
To a gravity of unheard music
Then calm again, intention, direction restored
Masts bristling in ash-white forests
Waiting for a renaissance of sails
And later congregated toward the night sky
Masts becoming golden, golden wands
Pointing toward the paused full moon
Gazing down from her perch of mellow aloneness
Down at her silent flock, again dutiful and distanced
Swinging about in unison
Worshippers of time
Arranged, still or swaying
Aligned with the changing sky.
At the funeral
We can’t help
At tragedy, if hats
To fly into the air.
We love to trip up
Life is hard
We can do with a bruised laugh or two
What did you say?
About your knees, dear?
Age letting you down, again?
A cartwheel or two should fix it.