peasant sanctuary // poem
On afternoons when the sun is too hot to be beneath it,
the body rests in cedar-wood shade
gallery mood temperate undone by the
cries of loud angels white and screeching.
When the mountain quiet settles
cockatoo and dust-paws inclining towards the coast,
the curious peasant naps. Limbs like a thicket
of honey-suckle perfume
Fragment 2 (or peasant vision)
His dreams are stretched out across watersheds,
tickling the shores of icy rivers bubbling onto
smooth pebbles tossed by dirt-pressed hands.
He wonders how it feels to know in each instance
that everything is happening
accordingly. Future arriving graciously
no sooner, no later. Perhaps it is a sensation similar to
a dove floating across tree tops, memorising the hustle
bustle of a below world.
Gazing without remorse from a
flightpath clear and shimmering.
Those winged gods show us how to give your
heart purely: place its satin blush
in the arms of the soul’s twin who will plant it
where the grey goshawks nest
until it becomes the first flower to seed
gusted across rock-faces
or the noble high-altitude meadows, we become the
tumbleweed. Frayed and holy. Somedays
our dreams elevate themselves through our hands which
do the bidding.
Last summer floating down
the Murray, borrowed kayaks creaking
you informed the river gums
“the heart is animated by a mercurial force,” before the
cod leaped up, marble eyed and laminated,
with a request clear as the rain shower arriving. She in her
suit of scales asked me to open so I spilt
the river across its bank, erupted fluid supernova
letting thermal veins warm us.
Glow worms, woven faint and celestial
hovered around. You
wondered if I would stay magnetised.
A reference point for changing times, we
offered dug quartz as payment to the farm-gate,
summoning angels from our rosebush
to make a moat. Where the barbed wire is hostile
and brittle, our personal pack
of divine public workers sing unwelcome visitors
The peasant wakes to the sound of cicadas
emerging, leaving shells of former selves
stuck on birch bark. It must
be the eyes on those trees
alluring them towards a