Burial

Poetry

 

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In the low tight soil

cramping out breath

sun watertight

stones as they landed

time ago

another tree grows.

 

The plane

so rampant

no doubt pressed against this clay

another leap to live

how it goes on

even when it’s over.

 

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Dog For Caitlin

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Dog For Caitlin

That summer we loved a small black dog

Whose eyes always seemed to

see beyond the immediate –

moving her neck from our stroking

To examine the future-hazed distance.

She lay by the door, always found the shaded places,

the tunnel through the honeysuckle, the trough

under the verandah where coolness pooled

musty, in the old dairy dark.

She would come when we called,

out into the light, her eyes half-closed

her muzzled dusted

and she would let us stroke

– with our sticky child’s hands –

her earth-cooled fur.