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