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Numbers

 

How big the Queensland property?

 

The city mind is told in numbers and forgets.  

Its breath and heart cannot imagine or measure them

written as they are into the smell of cattle and earth,

the taste of dust.

 

From my office I would see cattle stretched

in numbers over plains, under gum trees.

I would be there to disturb their solitude,

and with voice or stick, walk and hurry them over numbers

of hours,

and count them at the baked wooden yards at end of day.

 

I would catch the train out, past the city’s last idling houses

through hours of trees to a tiny town,

to the pick-up ute and leaning stockman who drove

down dirt roads to the homestead, its eiderdown

of stars, the cup of tea, the rough mattress, then oblivion.

 

I would wake newborn to the smell of dirt rolled out

by the sun, catch my horse and with the smell of horse,

leather and dirt, ride to the cattle.

 

How many numbers the homestead paddock?

 

Plenty, and easy to be lost……

Once young musterers left me

for the thrill to chase some native animal. I shouted.

I rode in circles.

I waited, listened, but only heard the wind gentle

in the trees.

 

I had lost the numbers of time and cattle,

and rode my horse until my bottom ached,

led him until my feet ached, rode him, led him.

I hoped he would take me home, as horses do,

or to water, as horses can,

but he seemed not to know.

 

The three dogs stayed. They played.

They sniffed amongst gum-flavoured leaves

and clutches of grass at the base of trees,

jumped scrub to chase hares and wallabies.

               

The sun wouldn’t stop shining.

The numbers of trees kept advancing.

None would cramp to feed on the flesh of a creek.

My mind slipped amongst them.

My canvas waterbag swung empty from my saddle.

We all bled salt.

 

At dusk we found a shallow creek.

We lined up and drank the brown water,

heaved our lungs, blew out our bellies,

then, heads low, followed.

The wind smoothed the heat on our bodies,

but not my anxieties.

I expected a night curled between saddle flaps;

 

but then the gate, the hoof-marked, tyre-marked track

to the homestead,

for me, brown, bland and beautiful,

a statement over undisciplined country,

a statement of people who must work with the outdoors,

who take risks.

 

I wanted to belong, to chase the numbers.

 

                        Caroline Glen © October 09

Ode to a Profile of Grass

 

I have found you again,

on the hem of town, breathing your own

piece of air and sky, licking the sun, singing with the wind.

You stand ankle-high, each blade hard-pressed

into the sum of you,

still living your freedom.

 

You still spread from road to horizon,

a large green garment,

a little worn near the sleeves,

where new threads, alone or in clusters,

patch the best they can.

 

Earth has provided the cutting-floor for design,

the workplace for patterning,

the malleability for needling,

the timeplace for admiration.

 

You are seeded to earth-dependency, like us,

where the seeds of man ripen,

where his body heats into shape,

his bones harden for action,

his soul reaches for sky.

 

Your two seams run straight at your sides,

by taffeta-stiff houses,

their manicured lawns, manicured flowers,

all yawning with boredom.

The winds pleat and crease,

ruffle you into ecstasy, smooth you into quietude.

 

I came again to see the embroidery of your small flowers,

white for the moon, gold for the sun,

swaying their fragility amongst the dark-green confidence

of weeds, and to watch the small brown creatures

journeying your roots, all they know of home,

and to look up for butterflies, moths and birds,

seesawing their joy about and above you;

and to honour the birdsnests inside your pockets

and cuffs;

woven from your cloth,

and safe from hooves of horses and cattle.

 

I have come for you to renourish me,

to slice open the fruit of my imaginings,

dulled and pitted by city living.

The branches of your old trees ride the winds

wider, higher.

Ungroomed, unshaven, left to their own fancy,

they drift their pose in lazy height,

and droop in prayer, in praise of you,

spilling their buds and leaves in random thanks at your feet.

 

Your shrubs still crouch low, their brown fingers

stiff and knuckled.

Fistfuls of tussock still cling to your fabric.

I have come to lie on you,

to listen to your stories, hear the hustle of insects,

the rustle of birds, the whistle and chuckle of wind,

the rise and fall of their tunes,

to hear you growing, slowly, slowly.

 

And to smell your green flesh, its salty-sweetness,

like the salty-sweetness of our blood,

and smell the bitter friendliness from your ferns,

like old coal, resting in a shed of forgetfulness;

and smell ash and sweat from your native shrubs,

and stroke a rogue thread bending above,

arguing for more sun.

 

And to smell the Australian earth, its minerals and clay,

once water and fire that long ago haemorrhaged

in fierce unison to mould you.

And to reflect one day spadefuls may be mounded

above me, ironing me to anonymity,

my last covering blanket.

In vain we wish to keep you, your gown

wide and generous, swinging, beckoning us without guile

or anger, to love you, to heal with you.

 

Buildings, factories, creep closer. I cannot stop them.

We cannot stop them. You cannot withstand

man’s machines, his madness for money.

No-one can help. Not me, nor the people,

the insects, the birds, the flowers.

You are destined to die for the world, spooned up

and overwritten by concrete,

despaired for a while, then soon forgotten.

Springbrook Mountain

 

Eucalypt, fir and pine hem the giddy climb to heaven.

Old servants, arm in arm, in rhyme of song,

they twist and bow to wind and storm.

Warm-clothed they liaise with sun and rain

in loyal high-country tradition.

Their ranks stay closed on by-roads and paths

to convex lookouts

where relatives in unending sweep below

swing their limbs with the joy of freedom.

 

Water rushes from rock eyes.

It falls furious-fast past wind-sharp cliffs,

past trees that swing suicidal from tight lips.

It collapses to fill pools eyelashed with shadow,

or renew the flesh of creeks that creep beside the feet

of the tree kingdom.

 

Amongst them, brown rockcakes sit on tables and wait,

never to be eaten.

Ancient-baked below earth, in a fire-driven oven

they exploded into unyielding shape.

Flat bush, like icing, spreads from their heads

and drips haphazard down their brows.

 

The wind whips and licks the spongy tip-topped heads

that arc from single threads of long-necked trees.

Nearest to sun and moon they flaunt a superiority.

Rivers, unpraised, untampered by man, carry the secrets

of the forest in her pockets. They think only of

joining the sea. They smell her, hear her calling.

 

A blue shawl throws its mohair warmth over the dips

and ridges of the northern valley.

It steals the horizon sky, blurs the scars of a witch-black

escarpment. The giant girths of the forest lords -

the Antarctic beeches, bear the weight

of the brawny branches,

and the caterpillar leaves

that release with calm, their ancient breath.

 

In this hideaway country grows the greenest grass

in Queensland;

and people slip like coloured angles of wind

from wildflower homes to greet you. Their voices,

foliage-soft, speak the songs of the forest.

 

The wayfarer wanders the silence with renewed

woodland and wildlife empathy.

He listens for the whip and lyrebird, but seldom sees them.

The damp after rain swells his mind into half-remembered

landscapes of childhood; that place of innocence

where the child’s dreams flew hawk-eyed to the unknown,

like the horizons of the Springbrook mountains.

 

Caroline Glen ©

Swimmer

 

You saunter over sand on seagull legs;

stand a moment in waist-high water,

and like the seagulls, appraise the seascape.

 
You slide your inherited strong arms

into the sea’s soft folds,

and swim easily out into the blue of Byron Bay;

you, alone out there on a Spring morning,

the wings of the sun lighting your body.

My arms remember they held you,

the chubby nine-month-old,

in the Canberra swimming pool.

You kicked and clawed

into a love for water,

the beginning of swimming competence.

Later the schoolboy race.

The family bent over the pool ledge and shouted

you on. You nearly won;

then we lost you for years to unknown waters,

in unknown places.

 

New from your stay at Recovery

you swim into the increasing deep,

above the marine graveyard of skulls and spines

where sharks might wish and weave.

 

I relax when you curve back to us,

people of the land,

where we can hold each other in body stillness,

and where you can replant,

all of you to regrow

in earth’s forgiving, resilient soil.

 

(prizewinner) Caroline Glen © September 09

Tasmanian Tiger

 

We stop, hushed. The dusk air ripples

with a gentleness, for we see you, old man,

lying still in your black and white striped suit,

under an ancient moon, close to an ancient forest.

 

You hear our footsteps, smell our woman heat.

With inherent trust you raise

your huge grey-muzzled head, lips loose

over teeth that once tore heads from sheep.

 

You stand and stare at us.

We two wilderness wanderers ignore

our loaded cameras and say,

old man you won’t live another winter.

Soon, the forest will blanket you with its leaves.

Birds will sing your death and dance on your grave.

Their scarecrow legs will lattice you

in a farewell of love.

Insects will work your flesh and clean your bones.

You will never again hear the farmer’s gun.

 

We say, old man, we forget the reward;

and promise no human limbs will stretch to you,

no cage limbs will restrain you.

No voices will alarm you.

With haunches low, you trail your long tail, slow,

back to the Tasmanian forest that breathes

in its limbs mysteries of your ancestry

and incurable illness.

 

We wait. We do not follow.

 

(Prizewinner) Caroline Glen ©

Joanna

 

We grew through our shoes at the same school.

She later grew into classy clothes.

I watched her at home, kneeling,

smoothing material, pinning patterns, scissors poised,

cutting.

 

I ignored advice not to visit. ‘No point’ they said.

But friendship without jealousy endures,

and though the threads between us had weakened,

I needed to strengthen them……….

 

From the door I easily recognise her.

She sits on a chair, thinner, looks ahead,

(at what?). I kiss her, sit beside her on a cramped chair.

She turns, smiles, and asks ‘What’s your name’?

Neck hollowed, her fleshless shoulder bone

points at mine, it seems, with accusation.

They almost touch.

 

Her brown hair, sprinkled grey, is pudding-basin cut.

She wears a tee shirt, slacks.

No more boutique-browsing for Joanna.

No more travelling.

Her last home here, with men and women,

their backs curved, wearing slow shoes

and silence in their eyes.

 

They sit semi-circled to the bay window

and through the glass watch their daily movie -

tree-leaves in constant performance,

directed by the Christchurch breezes,

written from scripts created by the universe.

 

I give Joanna a present;

a small, white bowl decorated with red roses.

Head bowed, slowly, carefully,

she turns it around and around, over and over,

hoping to touch the magic that will unclasp its lid.

 

Next to her a woman knits, arms poised

across her ample chest. ‘Come daily,’ she explains,

‘hubby takes me home after work.’

She rests her knitting for morning tea,

drinks, eats her biscuits, eats Joanna’s.

 

The Asian carers care.

They move catlike over the large home’s carpet squares

and floorboards.

‘Come with me Joanna,’ one purrs.

She leans to her, takes her arm,

helps lift her from her wet towel,

guides her down the passage to the bathroom.

The radio above our heads plays familiar songs.

No-one sings.

 

Occasionally I talk to Joanna’s ear - family, what they are doing,

schoolfriends, what they are doing.

She sometimes turns to my face with a Mona Lisa smile.

After two hours I kiss her goodbye,

linger at the door, look back.

Tack-stitched into her chair, Joanna still strokes the bowl.

My name waits on a Flight List.

I don’t know when I’ll return.

I close the door resolved to remember a young woman,

bottom up, laughing into a mouthful of pins.

 

Caroline Glen ©

country visit

We drive up through hills sliced fresh and deep

by sharp knives, precision-cut by man.

Wounded clay, gold and grey, like coarse flour,

clings to the hills. It still breathes through the hills’ tissue,

mother all its life.

 

A few road-stones lie cast in delayed shock.

We drive down through smaller hills. They confront

like plump washerwomen, stilled in scrub and chatter,

clean from rain-wash and sun-bleach,

bellies aproned in patterned shadow.

 

The flat land invites like a pokerplayer

laying a quick, winning hand, displaying uneven numbers

of gum trees reaching to the horizon,

white cattle and sheep on a dark canvas,

fists of sugar cane, a threading river.

 

We present gifts and ourselves at the home of friends.

We talk and walk on yellow earth down a creek

where dragonflies write invitations on the creek’s black ink.

 

Behind our eyes lie the city’s magic.

There we put on new dresses, new shoes,

and think we are princesses.

Nature doesn’t care about dresses, shoes

or princesses.

She says wear what you wish. Just come to me

with a noble and generous mind,

stripped of pretension.

 

Carolilne Glen ©

by the Brisbane river

 

Sometimes we need no words,

only our thoughts;

and just the two of us, quiet by the river.

 

Older now, we sit on a bench and watch

our formless reflections in the water.

They remind us of the insignificance

of many past anxieties.

 

Fat and confident, the Cats hurry past.

We have no hurry.

 

The moon swings to earth an invisible rope

that will never break.

She tells us we will live to praise her

tomorrow.

 

On the bank opposite,

lights from the crowded city buildings

will soon dance on the water.

They will remind us of technologies to come

we will never use.

We hold hands; the strength between,

our compensation.

 

(Prize-winner) Caroline Glen ©

Walnut Tree

 

I lie on the bed in a thin dress and watch

the morning sun,

after a week of rain, colour the grey walls cream,

and soften the air into a cream warmth.

 

Soon I will walk the street to the sea,

slide through its white mouths to roll

on its blue gums.

 

I will lie on sand the colour of corn

and watch the joggers pressing their bodies’ breath

through their limbs,

and the lips of the sea opening and closing

over the irrepressible complacency of sand.

 

Then a walnut tree, its ponderous branches,

its generosity of leaves,

rises though the brambles of my mind.

Beneath it, amongst a riot of leaves, lie mature brown

walnuts, young hazel walnuts,

and baby walnuts still moist-wrapped

in their green blankets.

 

And see a child in coat and gumboots bending

her small back.

She stamps on the nuts,

loosens the flesh from the shells and chews

their hard, white flesh.

The bitter, rebellious flavour lingers on her tongue,

the juices stain her fingers.

She puts some nuts in her pocket for after.

 

I realise in all these years in this beloved country

I have never stood beneath a walnut tree

and remembered,

and wonder if, in these wearing-out days,

I should return to the land of that walnut tree,

 

and with skin whipped clean from the pitched winds

of the Alps, search for the walnut-wrinkled faces

my childhood knew and together pluck brown walnuts from cosseting leaves,

eat them, and lick the stains from our fingers;

the children of who we were, before the adult theft

of what we became.

 

Caroline Glen ©

Aged Ulysses

 

My ship, rocks in the harbour below,

stripped of my men.

My bones lie lazy like my ship’s boards.

My knees creak like their joints.

My flesh grows tired. My muscles sulk.

 

At dusk I curl on my mat on weeping grass

that grows no poem or song.

The rocks hold still with fortitude and hate.

I honour the sun, moon and stars

but they cannot ignite my perverse strength

that trails me in shadow.

 

Day slides its arms into the grey coat of night

I would I could wear it; and reach to own

people I met, places known. They are part of me.

I am part of them.

 

I come each day to the cliffs to see my ship.

The ocean haunts me, ever the bride on her

wedding night. I envy her passions. I long

to ride her again, feel her energies beneath me;

to ride her with my men, their chests burgeoning

with wild air to slay the enemy on their vessels,

to watch them drown in creaming seas.

 

My men wander idle on this island. They eat,

they whore. Their minds are soft like the clouds,

their blood flavourless.

How selfish my life. You sit with me, old woman

your flesh still ripe in desire for me;

you who weaved and waited twenty years,

pursued by mean suitors, your eyes then bluer

than sky, skin paler than the moon, lips redder

than berries.

 

But I long for that hot needle that once laced

stitches of lust through my groins, that spread

colours of power through my body.

I long for the determination I pasted in flat parchment

on my brow.

 

I long for that strength that oversang the tease

and temptations of the singing Sirens

floating half-naked through sky.

They pouted their lips, wiped my face with their hair.

They sullied my sails’ tendons

that wrapped me to my mast where my men

had bound me.

 

In memory I still flail those wanton arms and suck the air

for knowledge of my countrymen’s battles.

I shout with the ocean for the Gods to grant me wisdom,

and to captain once more my ship of conflict.

 

Caroline Glen © September 09