Robyn Lance: Six Poems

Drought

Travelling west the land burns

but the sky withholds its cure.

 

Slouched in his ute a farmer watches stock grazing roadsides, wonders

how long he can cling to land tortured by extremes, when he’ll be forced

to sell the genetic line, fine-tuned for fertility, once fleshed for profit.

 

How long? The question a refrain.

How long before the smell of rain?

Robyn Lance

 

Haiku

forget-me-nots shiver

in the morning breeze

bees buzz the blues

Robyn Lance

 

The Headmistress

A thickset figure with tight grey curls.

Eyes roll up under fluttery lids as she speaks

the word of the she god to those in her sights.

 

Spectacles removed, held out then up to tap the teeth.

No irises evident so no eye colour known.

Mere moments of white in the strobed lid-lift-and-fall.

 

Stopped in corridors, called to the office

girls stare like hares in headlights

though hers have a faulty connection.

 

The voice rumbles on ‘til silence demands an answer.

The spell lifts. One stammers a reply

but will it satisfy.

 

Morning by morning she enters the assembly hall

the black wings of her grad gown flapping

legs bowed on knackered knees that force a lurch and sway.

 

Prayers, hymns, announcements, chastisements.

The Head is ready to descend four steps placed centre stage but

one low-heeled lace-up shoe misses its target

 

1000 gasps. Snorts. Smothered laughs.

Staff rush to raise her bulk and lower her skirt.

She shrugs garments into place and strides out

 

sensible shoes smacking the floorboards.

One second… two…

The school erupts.                                                                                       

Robyn Lance

 

Linked                                                                                              

Though both lack sight and sound

they clearly hear time ticking.

 

Waking early the younger begins the day’s routine.

The order essential. Pills. Food.  A lot to swallow.

 

Along familiar corridors she pushes the frame

to her friend’s door. News scant. Silence shared.

 

Their visit over the younger moves closer until

with a sense of touch diminished but intact

 

they find each other’s wrist, kiss papery skin and part.

Robyn Lance

 

Haiku

 

forget-me-nots shiver

in the morning breeze

bees buzz the blues

Robyn Lance

 

A mob on the move

Brake now. Brake hard

                over a rise in the road

                that follows the ridge

                above the Abercrombie.

 

Brake now. Brake hard

                rather than ram a mob

                of dog-driven Merinos

                crowding the bitumen.

 

Edge forward. Nudge the pace

                surrounded by sheep

                and a man with a smile

                as broad as face and frame.

 

                who’s flanked by another,

                an older, bigger, balding brother

                who leg walks the quad with Blundstone boots on tar.

 

Not hard-wired for haste

                they’re in no rush

to liberate the lengthening lines of cars.

 

Early that morning over a cup of char

                We’ll just walk ’em down the road.

It ain’t far.

Robyn Lance

 

Tanned his hide when he died…

There’s a zebra lying on our neighbours’ floor.

It’s a stiff that is flat and will breathe no more.

 

Stripes brushed and gleaming without the gore.

No odour of offal since relieved of its core.

 

The legs end abruptly, no hoof, paw or claw.

Eyelids stitched tight over what he once saw.

 

The hunter, aged twelve, used a rifle, full bore.

Would someone please show this dead zebra the door!

Robyn Lance