The Changing of the Rug  

in muted rooms
the damask is spoiling

in backyards         the pastoral 
slipping         stories dropping stitches 

in the dark         every street sign         echoing 
a cast-off scream.

at night         the emu spreads its storyline 
across a rusted sky – the night-crier's bells  

ringing         hollow         go on         and on
into         a shackled morning.

another narrative         begins to form in 
shivers         its possibilities running 

down the necks of the dawning curious
could this         could this be?

there's a low moan in the distant hills
along the river-line         needle-points

of red         on the pale roses         the dank
reeds leaking         shadows         into the fraying

silt.         the rug is changing –         the buried 
weaving         into the sun and oranges

motifs of summer gardens         unplucking 
themselves         all the white-washed stories 

trembling in the threads.      
kaleidoscopic imprints         flicker       

a silent gasp         an ancient hum
yes         this could be.