Five5 – 31



what are your plans for tonight?

she asks as she weighs my peaches

nothing, I say, I hate new year’s eve

hastily adding, so as to seem less curmudgeonly, I do love christmas and easter

and, whispering softly so only I can hear, thunderstorms and stormy skies



Copyright December 2017


Sky Games

the ceiling fan

churns the humid air

a downward spiral of relief

for the storms have stayed inland again

moving parallel to the coast

as they bluster their way north

from my chair I can hear

the distant crash of thunder

I imagine the lightning striking down

and rejoice in the humidity

too wet for bushfires I think

the long humid days of summer

began about a month ago

when spring died an early death

and the sky gods started to play their games of war



Copyright Dec 2015


On the cusp of dusk

The rain comes

At first on dainty little feet it treads

Dampening the grass with tiny steps

Then as its anger seems to grow

It pelts all with a mighty roar of defiance

As if this dry earth stands in the way of greater things



Copyright January 2015

No Rain Will Fall

In these early hours

A myriad of clocks tick

Outside geckos call

With a tut designed to break the silence

Of this dampened still hot night

Where no rain falls


We have been abandoned by the storms

They cross north of here

I see them on the radar

A rainbow of colours weather bureau

No tantalising boom of thunder in the distance

Promised relief carried on twirling winds


Even the frogs seem subdued

There will be no rain tonight they say

Let’s contain our joy until the wet

When we can croak aloud content

The late at night creek chorus


There is no room for poetry

Amongst the endurance of these summer days

The fatigue of body swamps the mind

Only with that disdainful flicker of midnight

{Chimes suppressed from 10 to 6}

Does the mind deign to come alive

Writing tales upon drooping eyelids


Under sleep monsters breed at rates unseen

They dance and sing and celebrate the heat

Weave nightmares in complex May Pole type

Dredge memories of fears long thought past

Summer sleep is never deep enough to fight back


We all exist as nighttime poets

Gesticulating at the perfidy of the world

Toss and turn in sweat soaked sheets

Watch the ceiling fan swirl warm air and words

Pretend we don’t need air conditioning


I’ll wake with a headache

These monsters will have drilled deep inside my brain

I’ll squint at dark grey clouds

Curse them for evaporating in the morning sun

It’ll be 30 but feel like 37 at 7 am

The geckos will tut to break the silence

But still no rain will fall



Copyright Dec 2014