The trees, tiny matchstick
slips of their former selves,
pick the grout from teeth.
We replant in small groves,
offerings to the departed
but they prove inadequate.

Fissures are reckless.
There’s nothing gradual
when the cracks appear.
Now, prehistoric serpents of ice
carve out paths. They weep
a destiny unpacking
before our sleeping eyes.

The desert laps at my door.
Tenacious crops face off with
salt bush, the latter quietly confident.
Saline craters, moonscapes
of quiet and horizons that flat-line
in the treeless distance,
now, the status quo.

Once, we were monkeys.

©  Sue King-Smith 2008

Peter Macrow,
Tasmanian Times Poetry Editor.
Tasmanian poets or those with a Tasmanian link are invited to send up to 5 poems which have not appeared previously in print or electronic media to:
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For the complete collection, click here: Poetry, Peter Macrow

 

Sue King-Smith

When the sky begins to fall
we buy umbrellas. Unsutured
holes open above New Zealand,
the Amazon retreats and we
look back, for a beginning.