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The Way
Back
by
Nana Ollerenshaw
Continent
Hands
outline the shape:
Australia's east west bulge,
the belly undercut.
The tip of Yorke
points north a millimetre drift
of unimagined time,
south, a triangle
the continent has dropped.
Islands fleck the giant coast
this land that hugs the downside of the world
between the ice and sun.
Explorers
eager for old loins,
spend semen in her salt.
The lips of Spencer Gulf
hang with exploitation.
Immigration consummates
her tired sand
her shape
familiar as a lover's arm.
Corellas
Cocky
bright they lift and drop
alight on Casuarina trees
a scattering of white
drawn by puckered nuts
they clasp with lizard feet.
Swivel-eyed, they bore with rounded tongue
polkadot the green
turn the moment into fairy tale
a story read to children
rapt in words of snow white birds
smooth as cream
that hang and droop.
The quiet feeding stops.
Querulous, they rise
raft to other feeding grounds
bleat their sound of hundreds passing
fade and leave the morning.
Death in Room 20
How
dead a dead man looks
propped up in life's last minutes
snoring air, even then
harried by the tests,
technicians with their orders.
The Health Machine treats all as one.
The stillness stuns.
The breath that's not a breath
exhaled from lungs, the years let go.
The mouth a hole,
the plastic face,
the eye where nothing is,
the torso once to its own living shape
now straightened out
willing to be moulded.
Inhuman or too human?
Before the void nurses pause,
hesitate with sheets then
leave the face exposed
shielded by the door's red sign
Do Not Disturb,
the cover up, the question
as to who's the one disturbed.
At Taabinga Music Festival
In
those yards of 1846
when phoenix palms were evidence of fashion
and meathouse, shed and wagon
framed the homestead
set adrift upon the lawn,
fringed by ghosts as silent
and as present as the stars,
their work still visible
and set apart from ours
in all our studied leisure
and pursuit of Art,
there in laden ground
the music took us and we drowned.
Fitness
His
body spells a triangle
of muscle, bone and skin
in equilibrium.
A foot that waits to help the earth rotate
an arm that pulls through sea to quicken tides
and legs to cycle slipstream
in air that is his drink.
With stillness of the trained
his body hums.
Even in his sleep he dreams of motion.
His body bends to love itself,
living to the max,
so far from those two myths
age and death.
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
The rights of Nana Ollerenshaw to be identified as the author have been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and patents act 1988
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