A Colonial Poet
The flowers over my mother’s grave
have blown and fallen on the ground;
the sky above the cemetery gates
is colder than a catacomb.
We walk the hill to a broken column
crowned with a marble laurel wreath,
over a plaque now etched with mould,
where Adam Lindsay Gordon sleeps.
Gloucestershire-born colonial poet,
daring horseman, trooper, drover,
politician, speculator and
famous Australian bush balladeer;
at thirty-six—financially ruined—
he shot himself on Brighton Beach.
Now wattle trees embrace his rest
with a whispering halo of leaves.
Jason Beale
Glory Bush
The blossoms of
the Glory Bush,
a decadent pinkish
purple shade, are
something strange
in Melbourne yards.
I take some from
a neighbour’s fence,
seductive South
American blooms,
and splay them on
my kitchen bench—
a little touch
of Carnaval.
Jason Beale
Bacchus
As salty sunlight
splashes down,
like a dog I dig,
like a spider
bind—
the dirt
is buried
in my skin,
my vines bear
secrets never
shown.
I grow,
I nurture,
strike and kill,
inside my realm
where blood
must flow;
and though
my spirit pays
no mind,
as demigod
to wine, I reign.
Jason Beale