Always he was the one taking the wounded
from the mouth of the hungry. Wet feathers
of sparrow from the jaws of a cat.
Or the one with the willing heart. The tomahawk
that would sever the possum’s head
after every passing car left the animal to suffer.
My protector, mourning the nest mown over
the lobsters in the market tank, the mouse
crippled in our neighbour’s trap.
Now he collects bones. Stands at the roadside
and calls their names: Bandicoot, Wallaby, Dingo.
He takes what lasts longest. The skull set with jewels.
Lets it bleach in the heat, ants completing the delicate work.
Mounts each one on the laundry wall. Runs a fingertip
lined with identity over the top of each glittering tooth.
well done.
Thanks.
love the atmosphere, Graham. the sense of giving and taking.
Thanks Bruce. We all ebb & flow…
I’d like your next effort to be titled ‘Sordid Sentinels’.
Oh, Big Dog, why do you always want more?
I read this after being mesmerised by Tom Muller’s tiny painted galah skeleton installation at the Yellow Vest Syndrome exhibition last night. How perfect.
I love the way this turns so gently on it’s heel part way through and bends to pick up a new set of treasures. After that wonderful middle stanza like a small knot in it’s centre.
Love this Graham, have spent quite some time turning it over quietly already.
Thank you for sharing it.
A.Joy
Love the way you describe the middle stanza as a knot… that captures it beautifully.
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