'Grape days' by Cameron Lowe | States of Poetry Vic - Series One

1

The sound of shovels scraping
gravel, voices

of men – the night's
heat

clinging still –

Awake to this, or
swimming

yet in sleep
you mumble –

A fly

is walking
on your forehead

 

2

'Ten thousand women
             and I
                     the only one
                                        in boots' –

 

                      Today, a thousand
                                        cyclists
                                                     all dressed
                                                                  in Lycra –

 

                                                      Sirens of fire-trucks
                                                                           36º at 11
                                                                                       no figure 5
                                                                                                    in gold –

 

3

Salmon in the cat's bowl,
chilli flower –

                            I water
cyclamen, you display
new shoes.

The stopped
clock:

12:16

wind change –

Of the snow dome
you write:

'this is not a place
not a world ...'

and yet –

 

4

After the heat, violence
             of wind, the sound of it

in trees –

sun on the spider's web
             by the white chair

star pattern in chalk
on the balcony –

details arranged, leaves
blowing down
the street

 

5

'Breathe it out quietly'
                                        you write
                                                                 'air thick as milk' –
          The moon rises
                                     over pines
                                                                  police lights

                        on the esplanade –

                                      you write:
                                                    'blackened leaves
                                                                             swimming' –

                                   the night
                                                closes in, smell of spices
                                                                          slow-cooking –

 

Cameron Lowe