JOHN GREY

 

 

The Outback After Rain

 

Clouds drift low,

soft like the shadows of ghost gums.

This morning’s rain has worked its way

into the pores of clay.

Rivulets trick down ravines.

Nascent wildflowers awaken

to droplet alarm clocks.

 

It’s been seven days since your voice

last shook the dust loose in me -

two more until silence breaks,

and the sudden closeness of this wide-open land

won’t let me forget.

 

The breeze here’s a whisper, barely a thought –

just enough to cool a brow salted with longing.

Lizards stand on hind limbs,

declare their tiny presence,

their limbs outstretched like preachers.

 

I’m drawn inward by the tug of recent memory.

A yearning that associates the land

will all who once lived here.

 

After rain, the earth deceives.

A softness with a rocky edge to its bite.

Then comes clearing,

the sky making way for the Southern Cross,

the pools of water for mosquitoes.

 

After rain, you’re still not here.

The air is cool, freshened up.

It feels like a new beginning

but sadly, nothing begins.

 

Halfway Up A Mountain

 

When I reach the ridge,

it’s still, windless.

I squeeze my jacket closer to the skin.

 

The sun does what it can,

paints the peaks blue

like the sky’s own heirloom.

Only a holly dares break rank -

its berries pout against the chill.

 

White nestles atop rock,

crevices drawn in ice.

I’m at a marrow-stinging height,

but I pay for wonder with sweat

and the expense doesn’t bother me.

 

Above the tree line,

ice fists rise like monuments -

not new, not young,

past Autumn’s first slumber,

yet still they shoulder tree-line’s silence,

the forest’s tier of grief.

 

JOHN GREY

 

JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Novus and Abbey. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Willow Review.