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.