There’s nothing left of that home feeling There is no bed-remembrance No warm waiting space That calls a person back When abroad; when visiting
There’s no clean pillow That smells the same as yesterday And the week before Fresh and new, fresh and new The same, the same, the same
There is no chair; No place at a table No rhythm Nothing is where it used to be Nobody is the same face As yesterday morning And last year And all those birthdays
Drifted into the ether
Evaporated Into the wind; Flotsam and jetsam Split into pieces You cannot buy your place again Once you have become nothing To anyone Anywhere… Once you have fallen away from the wholeness of things And yet
There is still a body Tumbled through the open spaces Wedged into the un-home gaps that were Designed to be in-betweens, and daytime, and outings These spaces are everything; all of it And always And nowhere at all.
I can’t tell you What I am. I can tell you What I hope to do And how In my backyard The hens and the sparrows Both eat the wheat That I bought.
That the chestnut hood Of the male sparrow Is a glory to me And that the cream-grey Of the females Is a fitting colour for a wedding gown… To my mind, at least.
The industry of those hens: Their cackling They dig craters And bathe in the dust The sparrows among them The ground stirring… I don’t mind the eggs But they’re here for the sheer beauty… To my mind, at least.
I can’t tell you What I am. I can tell you What I hope to do: That if you were here, In my backyard I would see you And you would be beautiful… To my mind, at least.
The fear of twenty-nineteen Could fill a cornucopia And the stink of smoke and sacrilege For Nigel’s new dystopia Is spilling out from Kirribilli’s Windows: New-Year’s Eve Has nothing; no potential For hope in this display of fire Mingled among The illegible stars.
But here we are, nonetheless This red dawn of New Year: The future menaces forward Relentlessly unfolding Like a headless snake at our feet And we see Face to face, for the first time, That this thing; this superstition Rushing towards us in the black of night Has come And we cannot control it Our disfigured nation Burning us Until we are the ones afraid Lost Abandoned Huddled on the boats Beneath a wrathful red sky.