Old Building

In this stairwell
light is water

pouring from a glass Niagara
sheening down handrails
into a boxy valley

it cascades
around shadows
splashes off posts
and doorknobs
spills across a landing

I tread lightly here
keep shoes dry
on the dark non-slip
of days

enter sub-surface
filtering ripples
from a vaulted ceiling

down there
are dark rooms
their dry secrets


Dick Alderson (Western Australia)

From The Astronomer's Wife (Sunline Press 2014)

Skein

Sometimes she would ask one of us
to help, to hold up a skein
while she wound the wool into a ball

we’d sit facing each other
on two chairs in the kitchen

our child-hands held towards her
in an almost embrace, the wool

passing between us like a gift
she had given us to give back to her

holding one of her boys still for a moment
while she took the soft thread.


Dick Alderson (Western Australia)

First published in Westerly

That camera

tight strap, long face
black leatherette
smelling of Kodak

we would ease the lever
with a thumbnail
until it snipped

a thousand times
the shards of light
loving the darkness in there

what a treasure.
But what now to do
with all those pieces

that dark box


Dick Alderson (Western Australia)

From The Astronomer's Wife (Sunline Press 2014)

Watching a Fire

There is something of self in a fire
the hesitant start, equivocation

then taking hold, a familiar reek
of match and firelighter seeming
older than fire itself, something
you watched elders do

but once it’s going,
the glass door closed
to a muted purring

it is the tiger’s eye which fixes you
flickering your face —
a fascination with
being consumed


Dick Alderson (Western Australia)

My Voice on Tape

how it changes

when it’s up in my throat
it keeps me safe, guarding the entrance

and I sound like I’m keeping safe
some sort of mill grinding out
a voice

when I let it come down
it lives in my belly
knows what to do with all those
pipes and strings

someone I could get to like
might talk to


Dick Alderson (Western Australia)

Witness

how many times
has she seen him
whittle the child
down to size

it never harmed me
the father says
using the knife to cut out
the curious knot in the wood
slit the vein of red       pare back
pale new growth

shaves his hair to the scalp

the child sticks out
his chin grits his teeth
keeps the pirate costume
on all the time
sword at the ready

at night he sucks his thumb
cries out


Annette Mullumby (Western Australia)

Teeth

Why don’t you have teeth there
Nanna he says pointing to the gaps

oh I say they got worn out
chewing all those apples and nuts

bored with being stuck in one spot
they hungered to explore new caves

I tried to pep them up
twice a day they sang
to the twang of floss
squeaked when brushed clean

but it wasn’t enough
one by one they left

bring them back Nanna he sobs
bring them back

At a loss I make two fingers teeth
march them home
they climb the cliff of my chin
roll on the tongue
sink into the their plush sockets
chatter to each other

on my grandson’s wet face a wide smile


Annette Mullumby (Western Australia)

First published in Poetry D'Amour (WA Poets Inc 2014)

Reading under the elm

A black dot floats into my line of sight.
Sunlight slips along its silk as it
drops onto the cuff of my sleeve
swings to the edge of the page
lands on the back of my hand.

I try to coax it onto a stem
but it’s intent on weaving me
into the landscape.
Just a handy leaf and limb
to hang its airy net on.

Then I reach for the urgent phone
disrupt the slender threads
of this small story too big
for me to read


Annette Mullumby (Western Australia)