Now is the time of jacarandas and the first heat,
Of cold beer in the garden before sunset
Slither of okra on the tongue
A parrot fussing over red flowers
Now you put on your summer dress and green shoots thrust
From the blunt phalli of the frangipani
You won’t wear new clothes
And how you love it when the knives are sharp
Now Sydney opens up her arms and says
Come, all is forgiven
Forget your wintry miseries
On my bare breasts
The days get longer, a sudden heatwave
And the outrageous heavy sweetness
Of the jacaranda on the river path
Jiggles the deadlocks on
Whole rooms of me
I’ve not been in, this long winter
In the quarter hour before ten
The jets fall silent over Sydenham
The sirens recede into Canterbury
Our sons fall exhausted on their beds and sleep
In the mornings you draw the curtains wide
My knees ache, hair’s full of seaweed
You survey your breasts and buttocks in the mirror
Like a general watching an orderly retreat
Is gravity stronger on Jupiter?
Asks younger son
So curious, so eager, so disheartened
Older son mumbles and rumbles
Gusts of raw temper like the southerly,
Lightning spiking over Botany Bay
In the twilight
Bougainvillea flickers
Purple
Jacarandas smoulder
Down the hill, on the Lidcombe line
The rails keen and moan under a freight train
Rain
Kisses the river.
Poem
November
Tom Morton