Suzanne Edgar: Four Poems

A Popular Song, 1930s

for K.E. White

 

Back then, no boys made passes at girls

in glasses & never at those who wore boots.

 

When other girls wore pointy shoes

cut low to show their ankles off

her twisted feet were locked in boots

buttoned down on both sides.

 

As she limped about, the butt of smirks,

a popular song burned her ears:

“Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots,

Movin’ up and down again!”

 

After a surgeon’s knife on bone,

pain, and the wait for brand new shoes:

sensible lace-ups, “nigger brown”.

No sling-backs or peep-toes, but real shoes.

 

Today she’d have the last laugh

as carefree girls in high-heeled boots

of patent leather and sexy suede

teeter down the busy streets.

 

 

 

Firelight in the Garden

 

The fireplace in the garden

is now a sacred site.

 

It was built here by my father,

under sheltering gums—

 

(fallen twigs and branches

build our autumn fires.)

 

Its bricks are loose and leaning

as if they crave the warmth

 

but the frugal little fireplace

still feeds the family’s feasts.

 

Sizzling racks of lamb

with a billy boiled for tea

 

makes fine sustaining food

on crisp and starry nights

 

while smoky in the shadows

drifts a ghost whose gift it was.

 

 

 

A Bird Watcher 

 

The early river, with rising mist:

a pelican skims along the surface

and flocks of wood ducks swoon to pools

making a pattern with formal grace.

 

Free at last from the frost of night,

robins cling to the sides of trees

and scan for worms in the soil below

then pounce and grab with practised ease.

 

The river belongs to them and to me,

squatting down by a rutted track;

no cars, no men on motorbikes,

just the bush, and sun on my back.

 

 

 

 

At Reedy Creek

 

A cluster of reeds is stroked by the current’s whirl

as if the greenish strands are being rinsed

by the slim, cleansing hands of a skilful girl.

The creek flows clear and quick; it has done since

last winter’s rain and the coiffed reeds sway.

Stripping, then tying back my tangled hair,

I dive in deep to find the bed of clay.

It’s slippery smooth to hold so I work with care,

digging out the lumps of precious stuff.

Arranging the clay along the bank, I knead

it into rounded forms: when set in a rough

design, they soon resemble loaves of bread;

such little loaves, all bluey-grey and white,

dense yet luminous in all this watery light.

 

Suzanne Edgar