(from the novel ‘All Our Christmases’)
I have no idea what bird that is which scuds,
a silhouette along the silver-pink surface.
You need to hear a call, but it’s nearly night
and they don’t.
It’s not quite a lake, although there’s been more rain.
The frogs sound resigned to the season change,
the grasses, reeds and marshes
are fed again by the winter creek
from the foothills
where cashed-up people spend the weekends
scraping barnacles from boats
and vacuuming driveways.
Across the water, distant shadows are absorbed
and suburban lights flick on for the News.
I have no boat, no house, no complaints.
For me, nothing taints this swamp
this winter silence
an old bed
a shed roof almost leakproof
a lake moon
rates to pay soon.
PS: The novel is for sale at Crow Books and New Edition
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