MARTIN CHALLIS
sitting on the porch
our dog
asleep
at my feet
the sun leaves the longest shadow from the house
an afternoon is in the trees as
they chatter of a day of doing this and that
and acquiesce against one anothers mischief
—
flavours of a garlic salad linger
the guitar rests
the book stays shut
the beer subsides to its last foam
a walk to the fridge for another
will happen sooner
or later
there’s no telling how long a stillness will take
MChallis © 2009
To my dead son or daughter;
I left you, let you pass,
kept you out
frozen: The mark of
the palmist foretelling five children,
I climb this hill now, with four at my side.
Your memory: A shadow on the distant range,
where eucalypt is to its last;
the blue mountain.
Though I climb and four grow,
the wife that was then is now gone;
her grief and her echo.
Still I sense the soft pad of your call,
the tug of your passing,
and almost
the first breath of greeting.
MChallis 2006
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