“A Poem by the Australian Novelist and Poet Clare Rolfe”

The wind decides the fate of trees
Rosellas decorate a lawn,
grief stricken for the wet summer.
Heightening the paradox of
winter brown, and green leaves.
Memories lie still.
A time of slumber for the romantics.
Desire is poured into
warming fires, frosty breaths.
Decaying wood grows large.
Rotten from damp heat of autumn
Framing misted dams, protecting
water.
The idle gardener,
accepts the inevitable
drift of time,
rusting tools, heaped over crusted gloves.
Bare knuckled flannel, budgeted.
For those adorned in wool
the stoic sheep,
stare across the paddock.
Rasping cockatoos, graze with ducks.
Brindle, angelic white skies
towed by their wings,
peer into hearts, waiting for
cautious with hope.
An echo, a whisper of joy
always pokes its tongue.
Dim, awkward, out of a
seedless earth, one dandelion.
Spreading its gifts, liberated
giving scent to grey
thin lips, roads.
A defiant maternal smile.
A reminder of anarchy,
overcoming the strong arm,
the oppressor, rapacious tyrant
who won’t play dead.
The cockatoos laugh
‘Cop it sweet, like the days
the season is short.
Rest while you can, life is long.
Keep any truth which makes it bed.’
Clare L Rolfe © 2025
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