David Barnes Perth, Western Australia |
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Pre`cis Shade moves to the rise and fall of the sun... It has no profile, no force shape of its own... no colour, motion; yet casts a never-ending array...of intricate patterns on shifting landscapes: and I shall not be in rage when my shade fades, in the dying sun; ...who will ever know? I basked in sun... shadow soothed, at twilight... Let the glitter of stars and time fill your eyes... let the end of all define you, against... the dying light. Woman of the hills & valleys I see the old woman shopping on the marbled lined floors, trembling on her walker support hose aged & black... selecting unblemished fruit and vegetables; chatting with other woman in the market place... she departs remembering to catch bus, or to walk back home, in time for a cup of tea... she forgets , keeps walking past other houses, only to turn back to her neighbours home... as empty as her own. For the man who sat at leisure for forty years, discussing olive trees, and far away hills, is not there. Thoughts in winter In autumn I always thought you would never leave... but now it's winter. The wisteria has shed all its autumn leaves a carpet down the driveway... against the verandah beam, the creeper is shaky at the far end. You told me autumn would never end... that I should stop smoking that it would kill me. Words, still in my head, recollections of middle age. Storms in childhood I Outside the thick bluestone walls exposed branches sway like whips, lash the air; and the shriek of the wind rises shrilly through the gaps in the dormitory; an echo, another voice, priest administering the thick lash, in tempo, bruising, the dreadful sound drowned in silence, beneath the noise of the storm. II In silence what large dark hands lifted to winds, wielded somber, menacing; obduate, muted pale pallor wept within the dormitory; outside, snarled passionate savage anger. A voice, tangible, sliced through the upsurge, ominous, the lash ceased onslaught. A child frayed as branches, whipped stripped bare, rises; follows behind the priest. Angry, silent, irritable priestly hands stir air, furious, night whistles tempestuous sacraments, wrath, unbridled, penetrates glazed casements, obstinate as the limb just lashed within. III Lightening, flashes on the window, the priest, hand on the door instructs, withdraws as jagged surges flare against the black frame. In the room, centred, two aged wooden chairs pushed together, inflexible, stark in the yellow glow: my bed tonight. I would be left alone, cold seeping through frayed pajamas, alone in the wretchedness, held by the night; He would have it so. My god how this bruising pulsates. It aches in me. Choked by furies, thunder, lightening, quivering fear weaves to a fleshed heart, through the long nights darkness. In the morning, gusty winds blow, I look at the mountain walls through frosty panes, alone, cut off from streets I have not walked. Bells chime. Awaken IV In shadows, dawn awakens; rich, shallow fog, veils remnants of night; the sun captured, blunted by overcast skies. I turn away. A sea of faces lift, gaze toward me, beds stripped, undressed, lights glow; we shiver in the drafty room; floorboards creak, footsteps approach, and a new priest enters scowls... "Line up! Showers! Move!" Water falls, rolls over flesh; life is a sluice of sensations, tepid water varies, hot and cold, chilly air slaps you, crimson chilblains sting. Showered, I grab a towel, dry myself, sprint to the spartan dormitory. It's a frenzied hive, industriously preparing for inspection; at the foot of our beds, eyes front, we stand, avoid glancing at his scrutiny, locker tidy; bedcovers straight and neat... strip it again? How many times must we make a bed? Anxiously, we await his instructions. "Chapel, ten minutes" V In single file, I walked along glistening floorboards; young hands continually toil, burnish them, and the old stairwell, which leads to the basement chapel. It's beautiful; leadlight windows, ground level colours stunted by first light. The altar is draped in purity, multihued wall tapestries hang, and cover arched brickwork. Silently, we file in to take our places. The priest stood, somber in white-gold fluid garments, a crucifix before him, his heavy hands lift in supplication before the altar- higher, his voice rises in tempo, as he prays for our salvation. I did not know his god. I did not know his god. In the beginning, I did not know. |
All works copyrighted David Barnes 2001 Used with kind permission of the Poet |
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