walleah press

      Walleah Press



Two poems

Fox Hunt

Summer, 1933.

A deep loch
Bubbles and boils.
Above the waterline, the air
Bends and folds
Like a house of mirrors.

A dinosaur comes up for air.
The River Ness splits open
And a legend forks out over flood plains.

Bass Strait straddles
A port-bound ship.

A flash of brick-red fur.
Spurs frenzy.
The Mersey River bursts apart
And a fledgling Task Force
Takes flight.

Red is the new black –
Fox is the new Thylacine.

The Red Plague sweeps our island.
Apocalypse looms.

All talk of tumours are drowned
In the sound of one hand
The Tassie Devil makes way
For the Tassie Hawks.

I saw a fox down at Parliament House,
His slippery fingers foraging
Through the taxpayer’s purse.

Sheriff, won’t you lay a bait or two
For Robin Hood?
His men are far too merry.

Mosquitoes in Mesopotamia

The sun takes one last breath,
The moon sits alone;
A chalky coin
Upon a dusty-blackboard sky.

In the nervous silence of the night
Mosquitoes feed
On blistered skin.

Veins pulse with life;
A river of liquorice ink
Thunders beneath.

Needles drill,
A desert plain is spattered with blood.

Mosquitoes hum their farewell,
Each one
Full as a fat wallet.