Barbara Fisher: Three Poems

AN ELEGY FOR JUNKET

 

Oh vestal virgin of desserts.

I mourn your passing,

remember how my spoon

parted your nutmeg counterpane

and set your white purity a-tremble.

How gently

you slid down our throats

with the blessing of vanilla

or the added luxury

of cream.

Alas, no more, no more!

There are generations now

who have never known you

and do not comprehend

their loss.\

Barbara Fisher

 

NIGHT NOISES

Nine years old and sleepless

in my English convent dormitory

I listened to Mother Joseph

taking off her clothes.

I say‘listened’because of course

I couldn’t see her.

She slept in a curtained alcove

at the end of our twelve-bed room.

In the dark silence I heard

the distinctive crackle as she

removed her starched wimple,

stiff as glossy cardboard,

immaculate issue from the laundry

where the Irish sisters toiled

when they were not lugging

pitchers of hot water

for our morning wash.

Next was the sound of rosary beads

put down on the bedside table,

then came the faintest murmur

of her voluminous habit,

perhaps laid on a chair,

and the creak of the bed as her

large exhausted body finally

lay down.What she wore to sleep in

remained a mystery.

Barbara Fisher

 

SOUNDSCAPE

 

We did a lot of listening

at that mountain shack:

the crackle of kindling lit

for the day-long fire

on which we cooked

and heated water –  the rattle

of the kettle lid and the hiss

when it boiled over

as it almost always did,

the gentle sizzle when an egg

hit the pan and the louder one

of chops grilling and fat spitting.

Outdoors for hours, we took in

birdsong and the crunch

of dry leaves underfoot,

wind sigh of eucalypt

and pine, and creek gurgle

where maidenhair grew.

Evenings brought the gush

of water poured hot

from a blackend kero tin

into the galvanised iron tub,

a road gang’s humble version

of the classic hip bath.

Nightly sonatas ranged

from possums skittering on our roof

to orchard shots at intervals

to scare the bats away,

but best of all was lying

in a warm bed listening to the rain,

first the hesitant drops and then

a steady drum on corrugated iron.

Winter mornings frost lay on the grass

and we heard its delicate breakage

as our tread left a trail of green footprints.

Once, just once, it snowed in the night.

We woke, unbelieving, rapt,

and listened to the silence.

Barbara Fisher