TILLING MY CHILDHOOD
When I am an old woman
I shall not wear purple
but magenta and every day
the same matching pants and jumper
I shall wear no make up
wash my hair but once a week
and let it hang out to dry
I shall spend my morning in bed
writing sardonic verse eat grapefruit
followed by toast lathered with butter
and marmalade
I shall go into the garden pull out weeds
smell the earth feel sun warm
on my back I shall rake up
gum leaves and burn them
until my childhood comes
dancing back to me
wreathed in their fragrance...
SILENCE
For Barbara Rautman
I want to be able
to step into silence
as easily as I put on
old pyjamas.
I want it to be
as comfortable
as a friendly hug
as simple as
saying good morning.
WHOSE FOOTPRINTS?
Kenmare Street is not straight.
It meanders from left to right
as it starts to climb the hill.
From another perspective
you could say it has a wiggle
in its bottom - like a St Kilda pro.
Not long ago the caring council
replaced the broken blocks
that were our tripping stones.
White and smooth, new concrete
hit our eyes from among dirty
older paving, this hotch potch.
And on this white, smooth surface
a dog left its footprints, paired
and curving right across.
I’m tempted to think that God,
making fun of man’s attempts
at orderliness, decided to come
and join in the reconstruction,
sending a lesser, faithful servant
to write His signature - backwards.
SEEING THROUGH LEAVES
My unfocussed eyes
blur vision. Unable to read
the paper I look through leaves,
red with the embarrassment
of autumn, to understand
the yearning of my heart.
Jean Sietzema-Dickson