been there thought that

 

it doesn't matter that I wrote no poems

down all those damned deciduous years

Gwen Harwood wrote every thought I had

burnt them in song

and made me glad

 

now she's been dead ten years I'm

catching thoughts again

they jangle in my brain

jagged icons

of accumulated pain

 

It's my turn now

to spit my weak water into the wind

to growl at crows

and wade against

the undertows

 

and Gwen returns

each year to shine on Bruny

a comet preceded by her tale of dusty light

this is her flesh in which

she has seen God