Lake Alexandrina
Mavis Lang
1.
Winter cataracts cloud the lake’s eye the arc of a great egret a blink in the mist.
The lake holds its riddle close, elusive as old man congolli and shy banjo frog.
Its rhythm sings in swaying reeds rattling their papery brown tips – the lake’s eyelashes flittering.
2.
Take your history book to the old jetty way beyond today’s stumpy stroll,
to paddle steamers and sweating bullocks; see Nugget the draught horse
plodding beside an elegance of broderie anglaise long dresses, waist coasts, fob watches, felt hats.
Then gaze back from these riffled scenes to a bark canoe
a spear-straight driver paddling to cod and congolli grounds, wise to the ways of the lake,
testing wind with a finger, catching, then sharing on moon-pearly middens.
3.
The sun solders late afternoon silvers the edge of the lake.
Soon the moon will rise and drop a spangled rope ladder right at your feet.
At night the lake pulses under star twinkle.
Long may this fertile womb be swelled by the Murray’s umbilical lifeline.
Whispers of the Past
by E P
History encrusted between mortar
Whispers of the past
Float amongst rafters and iron,
Echoes of once-whining machinery.
Fragile stories almost lost to the wind,
Enticed back to the living world,
Threaded and woven
With gentle hands.
Rebuilt, restored,
You are invited
To explore
The splendors of local expertise.
Blueberry and woody scents
From tasted wine,
Acrylics capturing familiar sights,
Literature touched by a bookworm’s hand.
History encrusted between mortar,
The Butter Factory whispers its past.
Rosellas
David Cookson
nothing will convince me
that nibbling at a she-oak nut
while hanging upside down
from one claw
is instinct only