I've been sad recently not able to Snap like I used to. I've had a
number of labour intensive projects on the go: had to retype an old
book for a reprint another publisher wishes to do (good news but hard
work) and I'm frantically trying to write another text (all will be
revealed later). So, I offer up a poem as offcut from my text, a poem
with potential but it feels a little too relaxed at present. So, your
criticism is asked for, if you have a moment.

My Backyard (title)

i)

Behind our toolshed—a stone building
with a shingle roof to match the house—
I had a garden all my own. Most days
it dwelt in too much sun or shade.
I grew marigolds and snap dragons there,
or lettuces, radishes and carrots.
Between crops, I’d let the land lie fallow.
                              Not for long—
as Grand Prix cars took the built-up corners
the smell of racing fuel replaced floral scents
and I drew Stirling Moss into the pits
for a quick tyre change and refuel.
Juan Fangio was on his tail and
the 1952 Drivers Championship was
up for grabs. If a slug should
invade the track, it would be a Race Marshal
and I would send the pace car out
until the danger was over
and racing could begin again,
around and around the winding dirt track
with twig trees and shoebox grandstands,
around and around, one push
at a time, until Mum called me in
and racing would stop
for that day.

ii

In late afternoon, the tall pencil pine
which grew beside the toolshed
would cast its long shadow over
the lower grass level. At times,
like a wanderer trying to find
rainbow’s end and finding it,
I would walk in the shadow
up to its tip and sit
a foot in front and face it
as it slowly drew over me
—sitting still,
owning my own shadow.




Andrew
'Beyond City Limits', pub. ICLL @ ECU, available at topnotch indie
bookshops - list at http://hispirits.blogspot.com/