A vase of rhododendrons on the table
transparent torn silk in winter light.

A waterfall of branched blooms
outside the window drenched in rain.

A small yellow bird leaning
to bury its beak in sweet nectar.

A bumblebee blundering against petals.
Tree ferns all along the fence gleaming green.

Rain thrumming the iron roof.
Regret that we are here for only one night.

Next morning, the sun polishes
everything – petals, wood, fern fronds.

The lure of Cradle Mountain almost fails
as we turn at the door for a last look.

In Tasmania

I am trying to ignore the thin women
their hands, their voices

behind the Wool Museum at Ross
in the shadow of Mount Wellington

women whose fingers sew and pick oakum
until they bleed

women with babies in their arms
desperate for milk

I am trying to ignore the thin women
pushing in from books

appearing among stone ruins
in ragged last century dresses

prostitutes, thieves and vagrants
pleading for freedom or a fair meal

even in their fragility, their wraith-like bodies
are heavy, heavy weight to carry

©Susan Kruss

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:
.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)

For the complete collection, click here: Poetry, Peter Macrow