watching unfamiliar stars trace
so far from home
So, I was sitting on the front steps, surrounded by a riot of cosmos, calendula and sunflowers. A trio of white butterflies played tag through the mistiest of sun-showers.
And I sat there wondering: Did my boss’s boss notice that I put a surplus apostrophe in an email last week? Will I have to go shopping again on Wednesday? What is my current uni debt? How many students will come to my class at 8am on Monday? Do I have enough clean socks?
How many times do I wish to be home among the flowers and the butterflies!
And here I am. In paradise, and dwelling in imaginary dramas.
“I tend to remember past dramas on days that lack any.”
Branch, Dan. (January 2018). Past and present drama. [blog post]. https://kwethluk.net/2018/01/27/past-and-present-drama/
they chew through silverbeet
nibble the petals of the calendula &
sip the sparse early morning dew
hypervigilant. hyperactive. biomechanical eating machines –
a-whir and click-flicking through the garden &
into my sleep
her other shirt swings
on a makeshift line –
response to haiku horizons prompt – bundle
23 years ago, we are at the edge of the Kuranda Rainforest track. Outside, there is only glare and heat and damp. The morning sun bites hard and hot. The bitumen is sticky with heat. The air is so wet that I breathe heavy from the short walk from home. And the blazing song of a million million cicadas buzz, throb, and pulse around us.
Kirra and me, we carefully ease past a cascading curtain of wait-a-while, and we enter the forest.
We enter the cool and dark and quiet.
We enter the stillness of the forest.
I pause to breathe a few breaths and to be present, here.
Kirra wriggles off my hip and runs ahead.
In the heart of this forest there’s a spot where the Kuranda creek murmurs around a large flat rock, 15 steps across: 25 steps for Kirra. There are flay dry patches of rock and little pools, rivulets, and a deep crevasse where an eel may – or may not – live.
Kirra is playing in the creek, perched on the rock, writing on the water with her stick and counting taddies.
I lie on the cool cool stone to look up at the forest giants.
The giant trees, columns and canopy shade us completely: just a few slender rays of sunlight are made visible where they illuminate a leaf, a twig, or tiny floating particles of dust.
And rising between the columns, a cloud of Richmond birdwing butterflies, green stained glass, catch and reflect that sunlight as they circle and eddy slowly in a gentle updraft.
Coiled tight around her beating heart
she ventures forward.
With the weight of all heavy on her back
she scribes the world in silver.