bright red
wounding the hillside, once
twice: every year
the dust billows down through the gullies
from up north, from the desert
dry-red flatlands, red dust clogs
cloaks the sky
so heavy, day smothers
so light, night fades
desperate-hearted nights, of throbbing sticky
heat: a bullet-hole
moon bleeds over soft lands –
bright red, like a bushfire
casting a pall
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Art lover. Loves her family and her dog.
Worked in the Australian rock music industry as a journalist and published widely as a poet before moving to London and spending the better part of a decade in advertising agencies. Returned to Australia and briefly tried teaching, primarily teaching English to non-English speaking, newly-arrived refugees but also as a high school classroom teacher. Has travelled Western Europe, North Africa, Russia, Northern India, East Asia, coastal USA, some Pacific Islands, and Australia.
