Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Sunday, February 4, 2007

Innerscape

Fry of noon belts her head.
She's dam running, setting to one side
the glare of an angry father.

She can throw it away,
flicking out elbows and chin
bounding and scrambling
and clawing over the bare cheeks
of granite.

Shining calves
run with sweat as they pump and push
through un-named scrub and un-tamed bush and
you are all invited to watch, to see
as she breathes deep,
inhales her curdling self
as the melt of her
falls
frees
pauses and drips
from freckles to mouth.

She trips.
Blood surprises spring from
both knee and lip but they're
soon fixed with a thumbful of mud
and a gumleaf.

Ten years old, she cocks her head
and stands with fists upon
her fatless hips.
Apple breasts
and ambitions small enough to cup
between her grubby fingers...

So many seasons run away,
Yet still I linger, hunger in
Acacia stands and granite screes
To find bravery.

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