Two Poems

Mother, Friend

The night of first frost winter
I wore a new black nightgown
made of winceyette and lace
It was the night you died.

In a cold room I stood listening,
congealed words from my sister
oceans and continents away,
frozen images of your struggle.

My sister spoke, I wrote down facts,
concretions of sorrow, pressing
And a grief for our childhood buried,
family voices silenced in your grave.

Now I near the age you were,
I need to talk to you as friend,
learn how you lived with certain truths,
uncertain lies, memory's accusations.

I need to say that what you did
was right, that who you were was
good, that it was only age
making us sometimes strangers.

I burnt the gown on icy ground
in a frost of fire, a cold wind blowing
You often said black wasn't our colour
I've only now remembered.

---

Peacocks and Sun

From Signal Hill Monument where
stone-bodied settlers overlook the
Harbour, wild goats come crowding
down the road, heading for the valley.
They call to each other like lost lambs,
frantic fathers, distraught mothers.

A peacock, escaped from the SPCA,
struts into our garden, trailing the
scent of sandalwood, colours of India.

Mist from the South fingers the valley,
strokes tree tops, gathers into wraiths,
wet, silent, white. Wood pigeons cease
soaring, nervous fantails disappear.
We hide inside to read and dream of sun,
hot sand, elephants and peacocks.