pretty pickle

pretty pickle

The Metamorphosis of Narcissus by Salvador Dali

born into the real
not seeing the real

given the heart
not knowing the heart

in a world worked
and grown
by others
walking high and
mighty through
the wild trees
believing
the fruit fallen
to you alone

pushing away
the hands
of offer

1 june 2014

Copyright © 2014 Peter Le Baige.  All Rights Reserved

on that hill

on that hill
anzac day dawn service

someone was talking
on that hill in the
damp breeze of
dawn of a
battle
one hundred
years ago
a blundered
battle* at dawn,
talking of that
dark hour when
the men leapt
from the gunwales
into the dark water,
a stygian river
true to its tale,
bringing them
to that thin shore
of cove and beach,
of standing room
only, the signs of a
‘pushover’ in those
who held the hills
read wrong as hell,
holding rifles overhead
as they waded shoreward
bobbing like ducks, one

rain

rain

i’ve listened to rain
since the first days
i remember,
that sense of time
            out of nothing.
watching the embers breathe
back and forth in the coming
dream i’d wake and stab
through the grate.
or face mirrored with cold
against the glass,
trying to see its
glistening track under
the ladder fern,
the pool my father
broke out in a piece of scoria,
            streaming over,
stirring with cloud      
                        decay.