Poets Corner – March 2025
Poets Corner – March 2025

Poets Corner – March 2025

Sand Horse

Bernadette Anderson

Under the freedom of night
a herd of horses run
along a boundless line of shore.
The thunderous drone
of a thousand hooves
awakens the night as they run and run
till they can run no more.
By the glow of a ghostly moon
stallions and fillies and colts
rear up, spin and dance
until the first whisper of dawn.
By day, their prints are no more
for the only sign you’ll see,
is the white tips of manes and tails
as they frolic below the frothy curls of sea.

Court Jester Cockerel…

Amanda Solly

with tangerine wattle and comb glowing in citrus spiciness against roost of saddle-brown boards. Beady eye, yolky yellow blinks in warning, a channel beacon signalling. Is it safe to walk? Beard of vermillion silk drips over his full crop, King Henry after the days feast. His beak, a ruthless farmer’s hook glints threateningly, waiting to stitch me up like a nervous chaff bag wobbling in the back of the ute. I tiptoe forward never taking my eye off his tapestried hulk balanced precariously at head height. Farmyard misogynist strutty, plucky, bold and brash keeping little girls at arm’s length from his precious flock. Does he really think he can frighten me when I hold a saucepan full of scraps, ready to launch battle like Goolagong on the lawns of Wimbledon? Those eggs will be mine.

Early Morning, Murray River, Goolwa

Margaret Gardner

It’s quiet. Water hens scratch at lawn.
A pelican soars on a warm thermal
then lands gently on the water
like a powder puff on a woman’s face.
The water is a mirror, still as the bridge above,
the darkness of its surface hiding the life beneath.
There’s a deep indigo-blue silkiness about it
the colour the night sky lit by the moon.
As the sun rises, the sound of morning
is heralded by utter silence, as if an orchestra
awaits the conductor to raise a hand
and begin a glorious dawn symphony.
Then mist clears, revealing summer sky
a brilliant blue punctuated by a streak of white:
a plane whisking away to some foreign shore.
My feet tread damp lawn.
The smell of mown grass rises,
reminding me that other humans live here too.
I’m not in this place alone.
I walk back to humanity.

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