Breath

Our breath collects in the circle
the net moves outward
pattern changing
as newcomers settle on the edges

A single thread twists free
but wind
caught
turns back to join the others

Around a point, the pattern
shapes itself netting
knitting
each generation repeating breaks and pauses

We breath to one another
new stories for old
old stories threading together
yet we keep losing the centre

The Stone Wall

She drew the stone wall
planted her brush firmly at the bottom.

“I’ll have three rows of pink carnations
six yellow roses
and a hollyhock at either end.”
A gate? Why can’t I find a gate?
One should
be able to make a gate
in a painted wall.”
She knew-knew she couldn’t
that wall was much too solid
and too high
to make a gate.

Where water falls

Where water falls
dark banks deepen
twisted roots curve
braiding together
to hold back the earth

Deep caverns fill
and the river rat
finds new dwelling places

In dank reaches
black bats gather

The otters seek new sandbars
for their morning toilet

The black bear picks his way
more carefully climbs to a ledge
where wild raspberries
ripen in August heat

Otter and me

As my white canoe tosses
I seek shelter close to the otter
Suspicious, He glides away and loneliness
tightens my throat
Ashore, I climb
to a higher ledge
waiting
for witness

Gates

She passes
The gate has been closed
he shut it
he always does shut gates
carefully checks the latch
This puzzles her

There are spaces on either side
quite wide enough for any child
or even a small woman
to slip through, and this fence
is low, not high enough
to challenge a tall man

His lawn is always tidy, grass
close clipped, yet she
has never seen him mowing.
There are frangipani trees
in his garden but no blossoms
on his lawn.

Her gate swings in the summer wind,
a panel loose and banging
a cluster of plastic pot, one rolling
Cottoneaster berries squish on the bricks
A hovea droops on a branch
over a fish pond-the pond is darkly green
mould climbs the rocks
A spider web twists, the spider lowering
his thick body over empty carcasses

Frances Sbrocchi

On top of Tod Mountain