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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Australian-born, with English mother, has lived in several Australian cities and in London. Travelled widely. Way way back when, published widely as a poet and short story writer. For the first 20 years of my working life I worked as an entertainment journalist, publicist, PR consultant and in advertising and media agencies. In the second 20 years, I worked in marketing roles at non-profit organisations then retrained as a teacher, primarily teaching English to non-English speaking, newly-arrived refugees. Also did miserable McJobs, and a long, happy stint at an art gallery.
