Southern Storms
Amanda Solly
When great round clouds sit
on the horizon
like swollen purple bruises
that squash the ocean flat
When the wind hides
and the air becomes thick
and moist
When the seagulls go inland
and call out from the plains
the locals know its time
Time to close the windows
and bring in the dog
because southern storms
are coming
to crash on the shore
in dumping deluges.
The Wardrobe
Erica Dicker
The wardrobe stands waiting for me.
Huge, dark, foreboding, waiting. Why?
As I turn the key and open the door,
air-filled memories engulf me.
Memories of Mom come flooding back.
Capacious handbags that held her life.
The overwhelming odour of Craven A cigarettes;
redhead matchbox, no lighter for her;
hairbrush for her daughter’s rebellious locks;
Quick Eze for Con’s indigestion.
I smell her lavender powder
and the red, red lipstick
that didn’t suit her, but she loved it.
Hankies, man-size – much more practical.
The inevitable scarf to wrap Turban-like
to control her tightly permed hair…
such a strong presence in these aromas.
Money – no plastic cards in those days
and you never knew when Con
would need a top up for his beer or gambling.
Hair pins for the long plait she wore
twisted around her head.
Photos of family, pets and her garden.
And last but no means least, house keys
secured on a plaited plastic key ring,
presented to her on some long distant Mother’s Day.
These treasures, small and essential,
she moved from handbag to handbag
as the occasion warranted:
picnics, weddings, christening, funerals.
Her handbag, her life.
African Woman
Tom Heffer
Wheezing buses cough and splutter past
belligerent stops as trees stoop and gasp,
roots thrust deep into timeless earth.
Beyond the fumes and pulsing cars
she sways and glides to silent rhythms.
Bright fabric tightly wrapped, gold
reflecting sunlight, ebony skin and smiles
gleaming under the searing Australian sky.
Charcoal suits pass by, a stream of faces
ebb and flow snatching hasty glances
at this treasured stranger.
The man at the bus-stop looks up uneasily
and spits. Phlegm etched across
the boiling bitumen, eyes down again.
But she looks ahead and moves on,
unheard rhythms surging in her mind.
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