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 these many 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