Waiting for the sun
Melinda Smith / Poetry

Waiting for the sun

I am a sundial In a sunken garden. On the days when you show your face I bask, all those long warm hours. You only see me when I glow, borrowing your radiance – but behind me, where you cannot see, circles a cold shadow blade. It gets longer the closer you are to leaving … Continue reading

Mimic
Anne Walsh / Poetry

Mimic

The day tries to be                    as beautiful as you                                       How she mimics your eyes in the dawn                    How she dresses the wind in your soft T shirt How she laughs sideways at me                                                                               when I don’t hear what she says How she paints her doves with the same colour wingtips                                       How she escapes me © … Continue reading

Wolf Mountain
Anne Walsh

Wolf Mountain

I die every second                  in everyday places you catch                                   the light in my throat and lemon it so I can’t speak easy                  Make it moon light on the river of my chest                  Make it sing long as morning                                    on the slow spines of trees                                                                        green as Sunday school for lovers                   oh! I die many … Continue reading

Broome Beach Art
Poetry / Stuart Cooke

Broome Beach Art

do you know do you want to know my people? we’re the ones sitting the hairy legged gnomes sitting by the o cean paddocks sipping moisture from salty scars blee                                                 ding the in terminable drift sourcewards opens the wet eye so we can leave the bushy one c losed losen up read                   currents swells … Continue reading

The Lake
Judith Beveridge / Poetry

The Lake

At dusk she walks to the lake. On shore a few egrets are pinpointing themselves in the mud. Swallows gather the insect lint off the velvet reed-heads and fly up through the drapery of willows. It is still hot. Those clouds look like drawn-out lengths of wool untwilled by clippers. The egrets are poised now—moons … Continue reading

10:15 Saturday Night
Poetry / Stuart Barnes

10:15 Saturday Night

The oranges made a gorgeous, swollen pile. —Fiona McFarlane, The Night Guest 10:15 on a Saturday night: my housemate’s asleep, Tiger Coils roil an air wet as whelps (a bitch yelps), Mulder’s chest hair exposes itself like clockwork. Grindr trills       Bud what ya into      Familiar thrill. in general? in bed?       Whatevs HAHA proving his youth. I … Continue reading