Tuesday, 15 March 2011

Rosie's Dream

The siren screamed
and the bird whistles turned
to dust.
The crumbling road
crumbled further
and the crimson sky winked.
Rosie rode on through it all.
Her shoulder length hair curling backwards
as Rosie's little bike swung into Orwell St.
Her basket was full of wishes and regrets
that fell hopelessly onto the footpath
where desperate souls filled their pockets.
The Old Minerva swayed to the sound
of old songs imagined.
Heartbeats raced a thousand times over
just as they did in 1943.
Rosie and her bike rode on.
Past the steaming chinese laundries
and the coal faced boys ...
past the back street liquor
and the wooden lamposts
that skirted eerie glows
all about town .....
then the skies winked once more ...
fading crimsons
flickering a different channel
as Rosie slowed to lean with one foot
upon on a sandstone bench.
Her dream was ending.
She knew it would.
And soon the afternoon hit her hard
as the blue blue sky
sunk quickly in.

Friday, 4 March 2011

The sound of bells as the weather cools

Underneath the whistling
the swirling and forgotten
I hear the sound of bells
ringing 'bout the cross

Call me to the harbourside
steely, silken, glassy
and there I'll sit till sunset
amongst the rocks n moss