Bridging

Trick of the Light

Late winter light's a lot like autumn, here
among the ever-olive gum -
                                                        but while
a heat wave'd leavened our gloom, north Sydney,
rain falling day on day, Victoria,
gave wetlands back their labelled character,

so much so that a weathered old couple,
wizened apple smiles, garb carded well-to-do,
turned us back from floods, one end of reserve.

Right! Course reversed to mozzie woodlands (ouch!)
we set off for the nearer boardwalk -

raking sunlight, proscenium gleams,
and we old hobbling beings, following.

The reeds were whiter bleached on the approach;
several kinds of frogs gave distinct adverts;
the decibel vibrators out in force,
but also the quack-croakers, duck-voiced goons.

You wouldn't see a wallaby today,
power-lashing tail a fish might envy,
a little tender head above the flood,
ears pricked up high above the wake of mouth.

Nope, it's a still evening of reflections
and crescent moon is deep down there a pearl,
Gollum might dive for, come up eating mud;
while, above the dishevel of the mere,
swifts swoop and bank, a busy beak might clack.

As disc lowers, this hermeneutic trick: -
for gossamer binds every reed to reed
and shows a tunnel to the skirts of sun.
The whole space is one great spider palace,
stringing bog cotton and the dark rush stems,
haunted by their absence, hidden builders.

And furthermore the boardwalk rail is bound
with dense windings of spider silk, sparkling
as frosted snow, as Christmas in July;
but angle out of glare, you can't see one,
not a thread, Emperor of illusion;

yet now we know that they are there, unseen.

......................

By the way, wallabies can swim, some.

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This, below from 1976

Spider

At deep of me
a spider
spins in
clear space wind beats at
the river startles with wrinkled fires.

It's good to be easy and filled with things:
in disputes clinging to curtain patterns,
shadows of plants on the walls.

World only knows no words can touch it
but pointers of thin legs
wriggling anyway: old
webs tinselled with dust
hung between roses and buddleia,
sown with midges, dew moons
shaken by bees –
trails in the wind. 
                           Smoke curls
upwards in veils, shredded with turbulence -
Staccato footsteps distract my purpose.

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