Ivan Head: ‘Thinking about Robert Harris the Poet’

Thinking about Robert Harris the Poet

Cold Spring crept over the hedge-line again,
and squints at the increasing zone of light
where the early sun reaches further down
the still-bare cherry-blossom; as if stretching an arm.

This collection of wooden energy
waits with eager longing
for greens and pinks to burst,
urging eucatastrophe to be the norm.

It causes oohs and aahs
including from some who
stop beyond the gates in cars,
and stare before driving away.

Many tiny birds flock through this still, bare world.
The smallest impersonate tiny, brown leaves
to escape the food cycle of currawongs and crows.
Some occupy the safe realm of inner sticks.

The moon is always in the daylight sky these weeks,
solitary as it becomes close-up, a giant pearl:
a stun-eye thing above the Institute in Camperdown,
a giant in its low-sky illusion.

Harris was said to be a gang of one
and know some difficult stuff
that came from the other side of lightning.

Ivan Head