A chipped ceramic pot of dune,
faded blue and white,
sits like a scruffy buddha
at the foot of my disheveled bed.
Purple grass, untidy with seed;
tiny purple daisies,
their blooms corrugated,
making dry stipples;
sherds of water-softened glass
littering the soil.
On nights when there is no moon,
the threadbare canvas of my room…
Silent gulls carved from pine
could almost blink.
A crooked feather might ruffle.
Heat, and the thrum of misplaced frogs
in the sedges;
two dingy windows ajar
letting in an algae-blue light;
the open sky above the big blackwood
the colour of a breath,
sweet and awry and unhurried.
Sometimes, the night air was a lazy drug
when I needed it most-
the night air rocked me with a musky sleep,
cradled me on a sweeping arc,
levitated me on a current of lusciousness.
Bare arms above the covers,
I dozed, dazed by the snail-trail
silvered touch of the cool.
Kookaburras, there must be three!
They incant at the unripe greening of the sky,
their mantra filling the blackwood tree with ink.
The geese up the way rehearse
and trumpet their evening prayers,
where they all squat to face their feather-flurried ground.
Night falls, crashing into a thousand silent pieces.
Now, all sounds are ricochets
within the creaking walls of this house;
now, the whole world is held inside
the windows’ weird reflections.
Taylor Camp, Hippie Utopia, 1969