Peter Skrzynecki: Two Poems

Stopping on the Oaky River Bridge

for Kathryn Burns

 

A hill on either side,

one steeper than the other—

to the east lay Kempsey and the coast,

inland it was Armidale

and more of the country called New England.

 

Steel and concrete over a river

where waterbirds existed

in a kingdom arched by silence

and the seasonal shift of shadows—

where dead trees stuck out

of the water like grey memorials.

 

Often I would stop

and look over its side—

knowing it unlikely I’d encounter traffic,

pleased to be sharing my day

with birds that weren’t

aware of my presence:

black swans, waterhens, ducks, herons.

 

One time I took a photo of my car on the bridge—

looking like it had been

abandoned by a traveller—

 

positioning it in proportion

to the immensity of hills

and a forest leaning towards the river.

 

The photo was in black and white—

filled with grey shadows

waiting to deepen depending

on the angle of the rising or setting sun.

 

No matter where I stood

or the elevation

the view of the birds was always there—

and I knew I could never reach

their heights when they flew away;

 

even though I once saw myself

as a spiralling leaf falling from a tree—

and following them out of sight

to wherever the river flowed.

Peter Skrzynecki

 

Driving into the Storm

 

Sometimes at night

when he can’t sleep

he remembers driving into a storm

north of the Hunter—

on the way to Jeogla in New England.

 

First the rain. Hard splats

making sounds like stones

were hitting the windscreen—

bouncing off, forming

small maps of water.

 

Landscapes changed

from soft greens to browns, khakis—

across farms and townships

where lights were coming on.

Clouds burst. Thunder rolled.

 

Slipstreams of spray

would become a deluge.

Headlights barely having an effect.

How much further could he go

before pulling over?

 

Winds buffeted the car—

moving it from side

to side angrily, at will.

The windscreen wipers

were thudding at full speed.

 

When he saw lightning

he knew it was time to stop

at a Rest Area.

Not having reached his destination

he was satisfied with how far he’d come.

 

He’d got as far as Tamworth

and his hands still gripped

the steering wheel—a prayer

on his lips, his heart beating, the fear ebbing.

 

Like now, trying to sleep,

counting the heartbeats

between each breath—

reminding him of the windscreen wipers

and Jeogla still in the dark ahead.

 

Peter Skrzynecki