Poetry

Moving

Grey spills traced back and pinned
high on a bark collage. Janet gave me that
and a lettuce of mulberry nudes
from an evening class. Paperclip
bellies for the kids who have gone. Pumpkin seed
roads winding into a grove of feathers.
A Bicentenary transfer scraped from a windscreen.
Bled to a gossamer. I hardly see
Captain Cook commanding the sailor
to stop firing on the natives. Drawn back
from an instinct to chuck out the lot,
Janet piled-up the cardboard boxes
in the carport and let us rummage through.
A card missing a deck winked at me
up and down: a time killer
for a Sunday up north I suppose.
The blankets that smelt like milk
and the exercise book with one letter
in it. I took some of it home and ordered it
across the rug. It told a story with meaning if you looked
long enough. Tomorrow, I’ll chuck it out.