Paul Williamson: Two Poems

Among the Leaves
The first to come peers without malice
from the wires towards the forest branches
in the nearby slope. That afternoon I watch
both pallid cuckoos, grey on grey with rounded heads
prison stripes on their tails, fly wings-spread
half gliding above the canopy
into a slow west wind, searching downward
for the nest to con with their egg and the large chick
that will eject other nestlings for their feeds.
The time of crime passes into heat
and the cuckoos and their young move on
in nature’s daunting tolerance.
                                           Paul Williamson

The Close Distance
In the redbrick church in Brunswick
the priest brings warm water to the font to baptise
the first child of a couple from the parish.
Family and friends smile—some are from interstate
one, like the father, from overseas.
For three years his mother had stitched
Carrickmacross lace in a Monaghan hamlet
to make a First Communion veil
for his sister. Now mother has sent it here
to grace the baptismal dress.
The baby with dark hair and connecting
smile, claimed her on a flying visit
before the icy northern winter.
The lace on-loan reminds of Grandma
and a vow to cherish.
                                Paul Williamson