bird moon bell

A single hair asleep upon the pillow,
black against the bonded white
where only wavy blonde should show its face.
Endings begin thus quietly.

The flower nestled behind her ear
had trembled as she danced.
One petal’s orange tip began to fade,
pollen fell like gold dust on her neck.

She wishes her garden were a still space
and its bird a nightingale
to sing the moon and raise the sun,
the lonely moments of her day.

Brick upon brick built tall
a wall of red and solid certainty
marks a defence against the dark.
The unknown peers over in the night.

Curved like hill or crest or breast
flared like a daring song or swirling skirt
swung like a woman hung for speaking
out of place
the bell hides darkly in its tower cell.

Robyn Cadwallader teaches literature and creative writing at Flinders University. She has had work published in various Australian journals. She lives amongst the trees in the Adelaide Hills, and maintains a website presence at Robyn Cadwallader