his hands
watch his hands, then
his eyes – a wordless
question, a clue
in the distances: relativity
him to me
from here to … where?
a merging of neutrals, non-colours
of winter: soft duns, muted bone
sparrows on concrete, dirt-naked
trees against the sky
us against ourselves
shades of the dead: the dull, the defeated
all things blurred, a blinded sun
pale, white on grey
earth beneath leaves
brittle, fallen
crushed underfoot
Like this:
Like Loading...
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.
