On Fire
9 poems by
Michael Cope
 

Poetry

Rain
GHAAP
Scenes & Visions
Some Examples of
       Silence
for the time being
Crossing the Desert
back view
Other Poems
Song Lyrics
A Virtual Anthology
YouTube Poems
Cautionary Verses
On Fire



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Late Rain

The rain always comes over the mountain
unless it’s licked in by freak winds.
This year it's late again. The slopes
are cinders. In the night the flames
were six stories high. Ash in the eyes.

 

Beating rhythms from a car

at walking pace; we go between

the breakers and the railway tracks,

greyed-out graffiti on the rocks.

The fisher-people on the path carry sticks of kelp,

their faces sour with drink. A man who goes

at the rear has a fishing knife folded backward

in his hand; he sees me see the blade and smiles.

                    g

The bloke at the gate has a crumpled note

I give him peaches, turn my back

on his declared status (positive)

and go inside. He must be comforted

by the new stadium. I have no time.

Bring me my machine-gun, I've been raped,

bring on the rabble, make a strutting vow:

sex-toy lap-dance, freedom-jig misshaped;

we struggle for our suited pleasures now.

The lights are out and there's shit

in the lake. Nevertheless the sun

illuminates the stretched-out clouds,

makes the waves breathe lime and

gold, backlights the children as they play.

                    g

The rain, if it comes, crosses the pass

from the North. The wind is cold but dry

this year. Port Jackson willows poke

out among the ash, in living green.