States of Poetry - Poems
'Demurely' by Chris Wallace-Crabbe
by Chris Wallace-Crabbe •
Brunette or shocking white, these wallabies
have their own special nook nearby,
under that blackwood.
Why just there,
I ask myself: no particular foliage
has given a verbal meaning to the spot.
have their own special nook nearby,
under that blackwood.
Why just there,
I ask myself: no particular foliage
has given a verbal meaning to the spot.
Something about bone-dry shadow under those boughs
appears to murmur clan or family. Yes,
I know that sounds kind of patronizing,
but when these animals go through their routines
we can see a social order clear as day.
appears to murmur clan or family. Yes,
I know that sounds kind of patronizing,
but when these animals go through their routines
we can see a social order clear as day.
First, and utterly visible, there’s
the milkwhite mother with joey in pouch,
moth-brown in hue, as are all
the rest of this little clan, one of them plainly
a mum too, with her teenager.
the milkwhite mother with joey in pouch,
moth-brown in hue, as are all
the rest of this little clan, one of them plainly
a mum too, with her teenager.
Some littoral nights, three tidy wallabies
sleep beside Blanche under the darksome tree,
loitering there – if we don’t jerk into view. Then
suddenness sends them bounding off downhill,
except for the white one.
Yes, she’s at home.
sleep beside Blanche under the darksome tree,
loitering there – if we don’t jerk into view. Then
suddenness sends them bounding off downhill,
except for the white one.
Yes, she’s at home.
You could say she’s got the game by the balls,
a calming mother, white as vanilla snow.
a calming mother, white as vanilla snow.
Chris Wallace-Crabbe
