Birdsville, Werribee

This morning a bird I could not name 
spanned a sun I could not tame
and on the road the dazzled day
turned and turned its winding way.
Through chicanes, past milkbars ran
the path to work, the time to plan,
but I was struck by birds in view
on Kookaburra Avenue.

And God I'm sure made birds to fly
both for their sake, and yours and mine.
In dying days we see these dreams
and wait for life to burst its seams.
In ordinary time we catch
the moment when we see the latch
of heaven's door creak open, wide.
Wipe dust from street; come, come inside.

Ordinary Time

Meanwhile, pluck tomatoes
ripe from the garden.
Watch the quinces shed their fur,
turn late-summer-yellow,
and burst with promise while
cockatoos eye them off.
Check the peaches.
See the opening flowers on the lemon tree.
Cut the roses, deck the table.
Water, plant and wait.
Number days and count the joys
and trust that tears shall cease.

When we’re no longer burning

All day the hazardous haze,
yesterday too. I feared to take
the children outside; even the garden
was clothed in the smoke of elsewhere on fire.
Discomfiting, yet
we saw the world,
a greenbluebrown orb of God’s grace
heaving with the death of it
and caught the surge
through smoke-drunk eucalypts
of a day that will come yet bids us fight
for the day when we’re no longer burning.

2020/The Future

Dear past:

We don’t have jetpacks.
We still walk, don’t hover,
there’s no button to press to pick your dreams,
and still only some dreams come true,
not all good.

Old men still have grey beards, if they have beards.
We can predict much and change little.
Some things we prolong.
Some days we are better, some days worse.
We have not finished the tower of Babel.
Cain still envies Esau, and Seth
tries to stay well out of it.
We haven’t stopped the fires burning,
though many are scorched and tired from the effort.
Heaven is still an apology away,
and most days that’s still a bridge too far.

Astroboy has not been born,
astroturf invades the street.
This is not quite how we imagined,
exactly how we’ve made it.

Yet

…my road,
My rugged way to heaven, please God.
(Christina Rossetti, “Old and New Year Ditties”)

Sometimes a harvest, sometimes fallow,
sometimes Job’s cut-down tree,
the year passes in a sighing nonetheless,
a barely whispered “Yet”:

yet this is not all,
this is not how all years shall go,
this is not the only movement that time possesses for us,
this is not the only sun our earth will orbit ’round,
this is not the end of years,
this is not the ground.

Tomorrow await ever-new mercies;
tomorrow see what tarries yet
will surely not delay.

Didn’t it rain?

As the decade breathed its last weary breaths, we sweltered,
haze blowing over from the north and west and east
and the fire station on Anderson Street set up
its red-painted TOTAL FIRE BAN sign.
We had it okay; not everyone did.
Our worst fears were heat and the once-in-a-decade chance
that fire might make it this close to the Bay.
While the kids went crazy, we blanketed
the house in blinds,
switched off all lights, pulled down the awnings, until
the 4 o’clock onslaught sent them gusting up in wild and rain
and I raced to the clothesline to secure pyjamas
while out front our overgrown branches teetered
perilous over the powerline.
By evening everything’s refreshed, nothing ruined.
I gather breeze at windowsills while
a rainbow reminds that flood will not destroy us.
Our pride might yet, or stupidity.
A new decade tumbles across the plains;
Grace will show what Grace alone knows.

Christmas Day: Last Last Thing

After all we have done and left undone,
after joy, after grief, after unbelief,
after wrapping paper scattered on floor,
after food is gone or stashed away,
after conversations thrive or starve,
after bombs are thrown and names are known,
after fire and flood, after duties done,
after every going down of Sun,
the darkness still has not overcome,
the darkness will not overcome.