Avenue (Glenroy Lent #6)

What a discrepancy between
the joyful winging of birds
and the fear in men and women…

(Jean Vanier, The Broken Body)

And how one cricket starts
a neighbourhood symphony
in the grass of our roaming
near the concrete of our homing
in these streets and these footpaths
at a Friday-pink dusk

while the street in its silence
has houses and heartbeats
(through one window, hear dishes;
through another, hear Dickhead
be shouted – no reason);
and the moon in gauze sleeping
says, Here’s to a safe night,

watch over us, dusty
from the day, cool from night
watch our wandering, half-hoping,
half-asleep-on-the-job,
down these byways and laneways,
all these avenues of grace.

Big Sky

Charcoal smudge
and ochre-stained cotton buds line the open eye
scanning ghost grey and brown wrinkled skin.
Smile.
Hopeful tears explode;
white tears evaporate in the silence of the day;
in every way
the earth whispers retreat into evening grace.
Wide ground opens arms
as far as sight can be.
Trust gathers memories.
Hand-in-hand wander
to sky,
to cloud, to sky.