As now I see the bloom fresh on the bud,
That trembles with its fragile life and new,
I turn my mind to winters past when blood,
Snow-bit on frozen roots in crimson hue,
Was not enough to bring your blossom out
Nor seed enough for sowing; freely shed
And for its freedom served to deepen drought,
Its black fertility in the breach it bred.
But now the vein is dry and fresh life sprung,
That once lay hid beneath the silent frost,
And laughter spills, and golden-threaded tongue
Spins wit for captive audience, the cost
Would not seem worth the prize, and yet this thought:
No love once given ever gave for nought.

Last time...

When carried on the evening breeze
A cry to make the marrow freeze;
He kissed her one last time and seized
The rifle by the window.

First one then two, then round them grew
The deathly chorus piercing through
The night that fell on wings that flew
Around the lonely cabin,
Till from the tree-line round about
Their lurid limbs came crawling out
So as to make the strongest doubt
The courage they'd imagined.

He fired a shot, then more, then more
Till they were scratching at the door:
A soulless, teeming, screaming maw
Not even death devours.
They broke like waves on two lost shells,
Relieved by the most fleeting spells;
Through fire and smoke and countless hells
He fought for hours on hours. 

But as night's bitter reign grew late
By some pernicious twist of fate
He found himself beyond the gate
Surrounded and unaided.
He blindly struck and madly flayed,
With rifle butt and flashing blade
He clawed across the open glade,
Through blood and bone he waded.

He couldn't see her through the fray:
He prayed what prayers a man can pray,
The faintest glow of dawning day
Inflamed the hope within him.
Even the dead can fathom fear;
Their fulsome forms no more drew near
And there amidst the clearing clear
He stood and looked about him.

The dead undead lay all around;
He stumbled 'cross the open ground
When from the cabin came the sound
Of sharp and ragged breathing.
A shrunken form, crouched by the door
With sallow skin and bloody sores
Was sniffing round the timber floor,
Its crooked shoulders heaving.

It turned and saw him standing there.
Its shrieks and burbles filled the air
And tied around its matted hair
The pink and silken ribbon.
He pulled the rifle to his eye
And screamed her name across the sky:
No breath remained to make reply,
No life to know the living.

It made for him across the grass,
His finger trembled on the brass.
One brief eternal moment passed;
He had the shot before him.
He told himself the things he said
When he had never dreamt the dread
Decision would be his instead;
His heart near burst within him.

He cursed whatever god above
Made man to be the bearer of
This wretched all-tormenting love
That whirled in flames around him
While fast the fateful moment fell; 
No soul was left that he could tell
But it had taken his as well;
He laid the rifle down.

Bracing himself for the embrace
He raised a faintly smiling face
And saw the dawn begin to chase
The murmurating starlings.
He felt the rush of living death
Then with whatever soul was left
He whispered underneath his breath
"May God forgive me darling."

FINIS

Between the curtains, barely drawn,
He watched the rosy-fingered dawn;
The barrel of his shotgun sawn
He loaded by the window.
The starling song began to sound,
The night retreated underground;
He counted out his rifle rounds,
The solid tip and hollow.

A weapon placed by every door
And window, 'cross the cabin floor
The casings from the night before
He swept into a corner.
As signs of natural life returned
He closed his sleepless eyes that burned.
He breathed again, then softly turned
To wake her from her slumber.

Sitting beside the rusty bed
He kissed her gently on the head;
Sometimes the ones who sleep look dead
But he could tell the difference.
She woke up with a stifled scream
From some dark half-remembered dream.
She softened when she saw a gleam
Of sunlight through the silence.

They kept what supper they could keep,
She said she'd watch so he could sleep.
He fell into a dreamless deep
Abyss of sheer exhaustion.
When he awoke the day was late;
The night lay far beyond the gate
But slowly crept the growing weight
Of terrifying caution.

He rose and held her in his eyes.
She wished he'd tell her gentle lies
But she had learned that one can prize
A love that could be callous.
She shivered more with fear than cold
And heard him tell what must be told:
No matter what the night may hold
He needed her to promise.

He placed a pistol in her hand
And tried to make her understand 
That if things didn't go as planned 
She'd see the shot and take it.
He kissed her tears; he tucked her strands
Behind her ears and said he'd stand
And hold her pale and trembling hand
Until he heard her say it.

The promises that love would make
Should be of life and never take
But now he asked her for love's sake
To take it if they turned him;
And earnestly he reassured 
That what she knew and loved before
Would not be there, the thing she saw
Would be a shadow of him.

She wept and said it wasn't fair.
He wept and said he didn't care
Then tied around her auburn hair
A pink and silken ribbon;
A gift he'd kept since they had fled
The vicious and relentless spread
Of death and the undying dead:
Then was the promise given.

The last prevailing sunlight waned
And round whatever food remained
They both their smiles and laughter feigned,
Forgetting what might follow,
When carried on the evening breeze
A cry to make the marrow freeze;
He kissed her one last time and seized
The rifle by the window.

To be continued...

First one then two, then round them grew
The deathly chorus piercing through
The night that fell on wings that flew
Around the lonely cabin...

A gun to the head and suddenly anything's possible,
No step too far, no thing you wouldn't do
To dodge what you had always thought impossible:
Your death – a rumour quickly coming true.
Of course we'd like to think there'd be a line,
A moral law that's worth more than our neck.
We dare to hope we'd grow a martyr's spine
And keep whatever beast's inside in check.
But then, why should I think I'd rather lose
My life to save my soul when every day
Is death dressed up as living? When I choose
What's known to be the wide well-travelled way
And still this night divine in all its grandeur
Not gun enough to wake me from my slumber?

If we had only had but one more day,
Or just an hour, we may have had the time
To say the things that foolish lovers say,
The things that flood Millay's acerbic rhyme
Or Byron's brash romances; Milton's fall
Would fail to paint our fall, our past love's death.
But one more day I would have been your all,
Your laird, and you my dread Lady Macbeth.
One day – and yet – we both went on our way,
A half-formed promise hanging on our lips,
Convinced that foolish love had had its day
And passed as we now pass like silent ships.
Yet foolish love dies hard; some distant shore
May rise to meet us with just one day more.

One late November, walking round
A local chapel's burial ground,
I saw a freshly shoveled grave
Beneath a simple stone that gave
Me pause – in letters large and clear:
"A poet's head is buried here.
We kept his body to deduce
Just how the f___ through such abuse
Of whisky, cigarettes and beers
He lived for over eighty years,
And if some rare genetic trait
Remains for us to replicate.
But as for what was in his head
We'd much prefer if that stay dead."

If pain be not the proof of love I wait
For one to make their claim upon the deed
Who has not the inheritance of fate
Twined round their head, an amaranthine weed,
A triumph loaded with the victor's spoils
That hides its blood beneath the herald's cry:
The gladiator's swifter blade that soils
The earth for freedom in the crowd's reply.
Were it not so, and love were easy won,
No soul would make it servant to his greed
And I, for one, would all its labours shun
Nor cherish that for which I did not bleed.
But, though for you I bleed and no crown gain,
No lover bleeds who ever bled in vain.

We learned too late the price we'll have to pay
The ferrymen, disguised before the eye
Of those already blind; posing to ply
The trade of knowledge, brushing from their way
The half-burnt husk of human personhood,
Long pillaged of its golden-kernelled core
That's threshed from field to furnace – nothing more
Than smoke above a half-raped ancient wood.
Whose woods these are they know and do not care
And tear the noble roots up from the soil
That bears the cultivation and the toil
Of labour and leisure, both in equal share.
But we with good seed sow a holy curse
And so the sacred parable reverse. 

How does a heart break? Like a broken leg
That snaps under the strain of misadventure's
Sincere attempt, that heals with time and feels
The fault line tremor with caution hereon in?
Or like a bottle of wine thrown up against 
The kitchen wall, the bleeding shards releasing
Their bitter contents there among the screams
Of passion, wasted, irretrievable?
Or like a smartphone shattered on the sidewalk,
The outcome of a moment's carelessness
And powerless to ever work again?
Or does a heart break like a sun through clouds?
Piercing through the veil of false reality,
That demonstrates for just the briefest moment
If not what love is, what it never was.

The rose before me is the one I love,
Though any other would have touched me so
And for this is not cheap for being of
That beauty accidental. But I know
Of other things, like summers, winters, storms,
Whose timely touch pushed me, in turn, to grow
Like clay under the potter's hand that forms;
Like trees that bend before the west wind's blow.
Still more are those that break the skin and force
Their way into my flesh that I can't tell
What is my heart, what theirs; whose fatal course
Is intertwined till chime the funeral bells.
For such are friends, but you and I this last
That shall endure when all else shall have passed.

You can't imagine what it would be like
To stare down at the corpse you just created,
Your better self, strewn Abel-like across
The altar of unoffered offering,
And all that's left is silence, a club, and blood
That seeps under the skin and whispers words
Like never shall, and always will, and run.
I can't imagine that you've ever knelt
Beside the grave of youthful innocence,
And wished the grass that grows upon the mound
Would carry on the dew the residue
Of any uncorrupted particle
Then find it's turned to dust beneath your fingers.
Of course, you've always been so good and pure
And can't imagine why I say these things.
Although, perhaps these things are relative,
Because the worst you've ever done is still
The worst you've ever done. How do I know
You haven't suffered just as much or more
For a harsh word unprovoked or a blush of vanity
As I have for this crime immeasurable?
But this is only proof of innocence
And even in the speaking do I call
More condemnation down upon my head,
For whosoever shall these innocent—
Oh yes, I know it better than the rest,
And knowing, know that I shall suffer more
For every word I heard and cast aside.
Although I'd hoped, against all other proof,
That somewhere in the aspect of your eyes
I might have found salvation. But no more.
Depart from me for I am a sinful man
And can't keep long the company of angels.

The rumour passed in murmured waves along the forward line
That they’d be up in No Man’s Land in just ten minutes time.
He heard the distant whistles blow across the roiling trench,
The turgid waste of callow fear sent up an awful stench.
His gun felt clumsy in his hands, his tongue felt thick and dry,
He'd promised dad he wouldn't run and mum he wouldn't die.
He crossed himself with trembling hands and muttered half a prayer,
The sky took on a shade between delusion and despair.
He fumbled with his helmet strap and looked around to see
If any other soldier here was terrified as he.
Some looked as if they knew eternal judgement lay ahead,
Some looked around as he did now, some looked already dead.
Their eyes were black as amethyst, as white as withered bones,
They shuffled through the mud and mumbled prayers in monotones
And out of this infernal scene a fear began to spread
And swell within his boyish heart and worm into his head,
And just before his mind succumbed to anguish and alarm
He felt a firm and reassuring hand upon his arm.
"Hold up my lad, it's only me" – he turned and saw a grin
Through teeth that held a cigarette above a stubbled chin.
The fearless and familiar face he’d known since they were boys
Calmed all the demons in his head and cut through all the noise.
"Here, take a drag" his brother said, "I've got another pack.
We'll smoke it over dinner when we make it safely back.
It's black as hell out there today; we'll have to play it smart,
I'll like our chances better if we make it past the start."
He watched his older brother slowly light a cigarette
Then hold it 'tween his fingers as he honed his bayonet.
He wondered how he stayed so calm when all around him fell
The ruins of a continent descending into hell.
As if he'd read his brother's mind he looked up from his task,
"Don't think too many thoughts my lad, nor many questions ask –
Yourself or god or any man; you'll find no answers here,"
He spoke with the authority of one beyond his years,
"I don't know why we're here or why we have to go up there
And tear the limbs from lads for whom we wouldn't have a care,
Or take some mother’s son and leave him scattered in the dirt:
Except we've names like James and Tom, and they Fritz, Hans and Kurt.
But as for me, I promised mum I'd keep us safe and sound
And that's as good as any cause to make me hold my ground.
Though truth be known," he softly said, "I'm terrified as well,
As much of dying as of living through this living hell."
The sergeant of the regiment let out a shrill command
To take their place before the ladders into No Man's Land.
His brother took one final drag and flicked the butt aside,
"Come life or death, I'll take them with my brother by my side!
Head down, eyes up, I'll take the lead," then round his shoulder slung
His rifle and with firm resolve he took the open rung.
The sky was thick with brackish smoke above Gehenna's glades,
The air with flying death, the ground with coiling razor blades
When down The Reaper came and silently began to wrench
The souls from poor young lads who clambered from the roiling trench.

                                                   ~

When he awoke with bandages around his broken head
They said it was a miracle they hadn't found him dead.
They'd made their way at daybreak when the guns began to yield;
Their orders from the sergeant, "Leave the corpses on the field.
Take only any wounded who you think will have a chance
And leave the rest to bless the bare and broken fields of France."
He couldn't quite remember how he managed to survive,
And nobody would tell him how they found him still alive.
The nurse would whisper later when she found some time apart –
They'd found his brother on him with a bullet through his heart.

A stiff wind blew me through a small town called Giru,
Where the pub is the best in the nation.
I was looking for work, so the post office clerk
Recommended I ask at the station.
"All the workshops are shut, and the mill is full, but
The Philosopher's out on the muster.
Though he don't drink or smoke (he's a church going bloke),
He's a tough one and braver than Custer."

So I made my way down past the cattle-yard rounds
Where I'd heard I was certain to find him.
Sure enough, by the wood the Philosopher stood
With two stock horses saddled behind him.
He was wiry and short with a smile that was caught
Behind eyes of mysterious forces.
As he held out a hand that was leathered and tanned
He said "Young man, I hope you ride horses.

Whether four-stroke or two I'll be cold-dead and blue
Before any bike musters my cattle.
It'd scare them to death, so while yet I draw breath,
All you'll hear is the ring and the rattle
Of the stirrup and bridle while tanned leather hide'll
Hold tight to the whither and flank.
Check your straps ere we go; first we'll just take it slow,
Then we'll run 'em all down past the bank."

We took off in the fog of the morning; the dogs
Ran around us and snapped at the tails
Of the Brahmans that ran in a cluster of tan
Through the paddocks, past fences and rails.
And I looked on amazed as he galloped, unfazed
By the tempest of hoof beats resounding.
With grace equal to none, man and stock-horse were one
In the fray, in the leaping and bounding.

As we rounded the bend the dance came to an end,
And we closed the gate firmly behind them.
Bathed in sweat and in foam we all headed for home:
The mares didn't need us to remind them.
As the morning fog lifted, the dawning sun gifted
The flower and feather its flame,
And we slowed to a walk, and he started to talk – 
And I knew why they gave him his name.

In terms simply profound he began to expound,
Without hubris nor with hesitation,
On what one man could hear if he lived in the clear
Silent sound of the land's revelation.
Though I took it all in I could never begin
To do justice to all that was given;
Every hard lesson learned, every battle scar earned,
All that comes from a life's worth of livin'.

But one thing he said stuck, and if I've any luck
I've remembered it here to a word:
"When the first pair of eyes saw our bright southern skies,
Something deep in the deep places stirred.
We don't sing of our cities. No banks or committees
Inspired a poem or a song.
It's the bush has the voice that makes poets rejoice:
It's out here where our artists belong."

By the edge of the Bruce, where the old mills produce
A king's ransom of golden molasses,
You'll find something more sweet running under bare feet
Through the cane fields and shoulder-high grasses.
Something greater than gold, something ageless and old
That's the cure for all things that ail'ya – 
It's the fire in our heart, it's the source of our art,
It's the soil of our blessed Australia.

The little house began to burn.
It stood in silent flames, alone.
Its family would not return
To see it turned to blackened stone;

But if a house could have a mind
It started suddenly to make
A memory that one may find
Among the future boards that break

And under future footsteps groan
When future builders build it back
From future timbers it will loan
Its spirit, seeping through the crack.

Another day is brewing, breaking through the slumber shaking hills,
It pours across the mourning stars; melodic bars, euphonic trills
Trip, tremble with a semblance of the sorrow from the night before –
Something new is growing; who could sleep? Deep calls from deep, the shore
Unburdens more, still more. The store of fears like gentle tears are dried
From off the world. Sol's journey whirl'd, he greets his soft soul beating bride
And I, who tried to prise the bars of art apart through heartless night
Am foiléd in my toil; all tongues lie speechless in the breach of light.

The taste as yet untasted is almost
Enough to sate, the silent unplucked chord
Sufficiently enthrilling; not the coast
First sighted but the empty map onward
Compels the hungry heart. Who hasn't felt
The sympathetic thrill of untouched thought,
Or almost seen the shrouding shadows melt,
Paid near in full the vict'ry dearly bought?
The gleam of that untravelled world, the thrum
Of resonance disturbing this thin veil,
The music of the distant funeral drum,
The dusk-light wind that puffs this mortal sail,
Conspires to craft this fervent urge; I must,
I must not rest, nor hoard familiar dust.

He stood there by the gaping hole,
An open wound gashed on the green hill-side.
A clod of earth gave way and fell
Upon the casket lid. The one inside
Heard not the lonely thud it made,
And if a sound to be a sound relied
Upon attentive ears it made
No sound; he stood, and no tears dried.

The hill of stones was green with life,
The growing clouds behind were black as sin,
The wind cut like the embalmer’s knife
And no one stood with him.

Narcissus never gazed as long,
Nor stared as deep as now he stared;
What visions there the cold reflection shared
The silent stones and crosses never dared
To ask. The night came on.

I bent the light, pouring through half-drawn shutters,
To craft a humble halo for your head.
I rose and plucked from pages, rife with mutters
And mumblings, a poem that's better left unsaid.
As you lay there asleep and I awake
I dreamt I'd lay the world beneath your feet,
Make empires rise and fall, stars bend and break,
Tides move in time with your soft breathing's beat.
I stole the dawn-thrush song from the edge of night,
Composed a symphony upon its theme
When through the final movement blew the bright
And blissful sound of hot stove-kettle steam.
Then taking all love's dream-writ music up
I overflowed your morning coffee cup.

The city streets are teeming with life and liberty
Outside where ancient stones hide white-clothed altars
Covered in blood of lambs. The firm clasped hands
Of ancient men are trembling, waiting to hear
The tramp of soldiers' feet outside their door.
The hastily constructed gallows floor
Groans under rich excess, cheap savagery
While wheel careering carrion birds who've heard 
That this would be a day to remember. Crowds
Chant solemn festal tunes for feast-less days
And try to dig from empty graves the names
Of gods that never held the spark divine.
The time has come for toppled crowns, they say,
While tearing from aristocratic throats
The ruff to lace the bitter draught they pour
Across their brother's eyes, now all are equal.
Tongues loll from powdered rolling heads while all
The poets, hearing bells from bedroom windows,
Pour out their cheap libations earnestly.