Previously Published Book
I wanted to be somewhere else from a young age. In fact, when I was nine or ten I decided to run away. I didn't want any goodbyes, tears or lectures. I was ready. I had some money in a worn out porcelain pig. I wanted to be away. Somewhere else. I didn't get far. In fact only a few doors down the road. It was quiet and the air settled around me like a cold wet blanket. The chill of frost and a voice: 'Und wo willst du hin?' (And where do you want to go?) It was my father.
The desire to travel stayed with me.
These poems are fragments of memories of some of these trips down the road.
Footnote:I keep moving. Always will. So much to see and find.
the closeness of winter (Pambula Beach, New South Wales, 2008) butterfly, full of drunken love hibiscus pregnant with colour and scent — away from the close up, rolling waves sea knows the stone age by its maiden name, long before time became civilized 'I'm so old', she sighs 'So am I,' the butterfly laments, 'it's been years since a cocoon gave birth to me.' hisbiscus too is almost gone, CPR won't help a tired blossom — I'm glad I still have blood in my veins.