TIME WOULD CHOOSE
what is the magpie searching for next to the path
all this summer we’ve felt only dust
a tree has fallen, its sap taken by drought’s gravity
and there’s a mash of branches like a burst moon
I trace ancient blur in the floating night
those tiny points spilling from the galaxy’s breast
the creek is torpid and smells like a sour sea
the bushlands seem to crackle and splinter like bones
I can tell myself its natural that everything dies
but when is death a place or time you would choose
to lie down together with the soil and the stone
to give up the air and the song in your mouth
rather be with sky like that magpie and dreaming
rather be vagrant than something you’d own
[Note: the words ending each line of this poem are also words ending
lines of various poems I've been reading this week on not dis-similar
'themes']
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Jill Jones
www.jilljones.com.au
Latest book: Brink, Five Islands Press
http://fiveislandspress.com/catalogue/brink-jill-jones
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