THE BICKERING STAFF

Deep arbour of broken lines,  the chalky, temporal view.  Our beginnings echo across the shale,  a dishevelled, sandy plume.  Pebbles of time and shards of hope,  tumble down the dunes.  Nested creatures of silent love,  are collecting in the ruins.  Take a life, this moment,  wash it dark and clean.  Each lick of salty water,  a taste of broken dreams.  But through narcotic spectre,  there floats a paper boat.  In foundling waters deep,  my love, brimming full of hope.

My Father was the archetypal head of the family, but my Mother ran it, and that was the deal that suited them both. Everyday he journeyed into the city for work and was home in time for dinner. It was a regular and solid pattern of life that brought safety and security to our suburban life. When we were children, my sisters and I would be taken to church and encouraged to participate in the various fellowship groups. After church, my Father developed a ritual while waiting for Sunday lunch. He would lift the lid of our all-in-one veneer sound system and select some vinyl to play. It usually began with the Broadway version of Man of La Mancha at full blast, closely followed by Fiddler on the Roof and a bit of Cleo Laine to soften the mood. This was quite odd because I can’t remember him playing music during the week? It seemed like his deep, personal reflection on life at church would give way to the imaginary world of music and theatre.  Performance was my father's...

In my dream the Rare birds sing of beauty and sorrow in spring.  Falling in halves, flax clings to a fragile stem. I whisper a sigh to the full moon and scratch the palm of my hand. The cotton flute of white fibres dither in the changing breeze, releasing an enchanting spell that flavours the season and perfumes the air.  In the bracken surrounds of this fragrant wood, some children step lightly across mossy stones scattered across the belly of a swollen stream. With rustle and twitch, the rare birds take to the high ground and hop nervously above the fray. Teetering on balance, innocent squeals and sharp intakes of air ring in unison as the boy and girl scramble through the fern and thistle. Their 'dare and do' echo through the trees and their spirit is absorbed by sap and nectar. But whom do they belong too? Can we borrow from them a remedy for the beauty and sorrow in spring? Golden light seeps through a canopy of oak and illuminates the hats of wee folk scattered on the gr...

A villager says, "These Mountains have secrets".  By the timber yard, t here runs a track of forgotten concrete.  Broken trees disguise the elevation,  and form a vail of curious light.  In an area long since claimed by nature, f issures of thistle break through the road, a nd the air smells of electricity.  Deserted rooms of grey dust, a nd crumbling mosaic floors, h ide the secret of the Nazi Bell.   I wonder… where have all the people gone?  Dissolved in bitumen.  It seems they have melted into the very earth that supported them.  Buried beneath ceramic tar and red soil.  All that is left is aluminium foil.   Here, the black sun has taken the souls, o f men who chewed the cable and scratched the earth,  to deliver a device of unfathomable power.  Secrecy guards a network of mines,  where the teeth of the SS g low in a strange blue haze.  A mysterious and infinite light.  Cold-generating...