And a friendly reminder, as of April 2017, my first collection – BONE INK – is available for order from Guillotine Press. This is one of the poems that didn’t make it into the collection.




half-way to Rouse Hill
I’ve been rolling
fallen trees, searching for snakes.

thirsty enough to kneel
and drink a silty mouthful of hoof print from a dam;
Holbie laughs. He wants me to talk.

I tell him a story of colours:
blanco, naranja, morado, gris
amarillo, verde, rojo, negro, turquesa, marron, rosa, azul, oro.

this place, the stubble of cow-trod paddocks
a copse of trees, doesn’t know the selves

we live with.

by the time he’s had enough we can see
the caravan park where she lives,
up a dirt road. I wonder

what he thinks.

eyes straight into my mind;

my friend, a falling kite
who fights to his eyebrows,
who would let me squeeze the blood from his ribs,

he says

we’re gods of stolen change

FullSizeRender (4)

Another oddity from 2015. Slowly clearing out the old stuff.


  1. There’s something about a dark background on a web page that usually keeps me from going any further but looking at this one is like sitting in a movie theater watching, …no, being swept away into a story. Whew…good one. “Blanco, naranja, morado, gris”

  2. The image you used for this poem is quizzical. Fallen trees could have been a better blend with the words. Hope you don’t mind my opinion. Lovely poem.

    1. Thanks Olga, I don’t mind your opinion at all. I guess it’s the great thing about poetry, images add up in different ways for different people. Thanks for reading!

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