billabong
willow’s trail
summer rain adorns
tear-stranded chains
in mud-brown waters
at creek’s elbow
where once we played
on bleached summer days
giggling and hiding
within playful strands.
moss-slimed roots jut
from clay-bedded banks
their velvety strength
forged there,
fixed, resolute.
How forgiving the branches
as we clung and swayed
how easily they bent low,
persuaded,
to join our play
as we danced like water elves
singing summer’s last song.
​
​
first cries
first cries
break midnight hours
high windows permit
pale moon streaming
lungs raw at first contact
querulous crescendo
bereft of womb comfort
the die cast for
life
amber pre-dawn
struggling
into bright light
mewling lips
seek breast comfort
blue eyes myopic focus
finds mother, father
their weariness fades
in slack-jawed relief
hearts stretched
as vulnerable in this moment
as their newborn child
​
​
corner table
Winter’s blast enters with me
slamming the glass door to the café
you’re already here, pretending
not to wait, holding your gaunt frame erect
You move when you see me, stepping
forward with careful pace, waving
a pale tight-skinned hand, choosing
the table in a sunlit corner
You’ve aged twenty years in two, so thin
you almost fold in half. Wanting
information on the cancer, I lean in to hope
I didn’t get the email attachment, I say
The left corner of your mouth jerks
the way it always has. You release
a deep sigh, then details: biopsies
mesothelioma, late stages, medications, prognosis
You accept the coffee, declining
the menu with minimal gesture, then
frown as I place gold coins on the table
I don’t want … anything, you say
We don’t notice the ten am rush as
we measure our words
with resolute precision, stalling
and starting, clinging to script
You disappear into the street, drowning
in the traffic, leaving
me to walk the other way
I wish you’d let me say goodbye.
shoes
(tales my mother told me)
​
shoes
thick card inserts
all the miles to school
poor protection from harsh winter chill
rough trail through scribbly gums
soles redone by father
frequently
​
She waits
(Ekphrasis on ‘Evening’ by Russell Drysdale)
She waits
in evening’s low glow
on brown ochre land
surrendered
to bare horizon’s dim promise.
I think I hear her story
while she waits
embracing
a single timber column
of her pale yellow house
I hear dreams washed by flood
heart cracked by drought.
But these are mere musings
of my own faded story
perhaps…
she’s only thinking
‘Another five minutes
and I’ll have a cup of tea.’
___________________________
​
Linda Brooks has completed a Bachelor of Arts with Hons in Creative Writing. Her childhood memoir "A Curious & Inelegant Childhood" was published by Cyberworld Press in 2010. She has written two books on Asperger’s Syndrome with Professor Tony Attwood: I’m not broken, I’m just different and Callan the Chameleon. She has poetry and short stories published in anthologies: Coastlines' 5, 6, 7 & 8; Wood, Bricks & Stone; Grieve and Longing for Solitude. She has also been awarded the following: Rebecca Coyle Scholarship for Hons; first prize—Legacy University Award; first prize—Gabe Reynaud Award; Mater Misericordiae Grieve Writing Award.