I think of our fires | my silk
scarf smudged with grey | old
wood that popped and cracked

the tiny floating sparks that lifted
from the black | motes
of copper made a close night sky

we were gods | men | dark red things
now the deep infrared swells and rolls
brighter and darker | breaking

the earth to ashes | the fire licks
the stars | magnetic | draws them all
back | in

the bracken at my feet | her face
half closed | against the smoke
the pieces of bark cooling | we

feel the cold | turn back
the clean light inside | printed
with our pairing families’ shadows

Lydia Allison

Flower Sermon

Dead flowers by the sea lay on
sandstone rock.

Weighed down by the pebble she left,
that he took.

From the centre of her world he'd
gaze all around.

Till she left dead flowers
on the sandstone rock

They'd found.

James Lock

The Strawberry Dream

I was in a land of white blossom
near a tree, searching…
I can’t remember
what for.

The tree had strawberries dangling
from its branches
like oranges
not like strawberries.
Their juice fell constantly to the ground
a sea of pink-red

and I searched on
in the dark green grass
studded with white blossom
next to the tree
with the strawberry moat.

Elizabeth Gibson

The Sugar River

All along the sugar river,
She sings sweetly as we get nearer,
Voices echoing down the sugar river.

And the clothes are strewn about the room,
Sweet indecisions made so swiftly,
All the actions thrown across the room.

All the way across her tensed forehead,
Are the markings of a mocking moon
They trickle beads and pearls from neck to forehead,
They disappear in the water all too soon.

All along the sugar river,

She sings sweetly as we get nearer,

Her sweet song congeals in the hot sun,

Voices echoing down the sugar river,

Stung by wasps on the banks of beyond.

Elspeth Vischer