She dreams of wheelie
bins hurled from great
heights and wakes to find
the street a thicket
of meat trays and
fruit nets and eggboxes; the asphalt, a jig-saw
puzzle. The dog is discovered
at the neighbour’s –
the fence, worn thin by
salt wind, is down.
The woman who dreamed
of wheelie bins stands by
the gap calling the dog
and sees the vege garden
for the first time. All those
trellises, all that lawn,
a purpose-built compost.
All the way
to the shops, she sees
how delicate things are:
the way asphalt is only a skin
and trees are brittle
at the tips, and roofs – usually
so respectful – can turn
and laugh at you. At the café,
she shares a table with a woman
who forgets
how old she is. She needs to text
her husband to find out. She’s
not old, she’s just in pieces. Together the two
women watch a family walk its
belongings from a sodden house –
cat bed, cushions, crime paperbacks.
A truck pulls up with orange
cones and men in high-visibility
jackets. Someone cheers. Both
at the same time, the women
lift their bags and go. At
home she tries to fix
the fence. There’s a blackbird
contemplating
the lid of her wheelie bin, he’s
pinkish in the light. The bin lid is yellow,
the sky, yes, at last! a little blue.
Mary McCallum
We've had a big earthquake since but we're still fixing things up from a massive storm that hit us some weeks back. The asphalt is still jig-saw-like in parts and sand is over the footpath and rubbish bins are wrenched from the ground. We were lucky really... just a fence down. That bit of the poem is me. The rest is true of other people I know. How helpless storms make you feel and 'in pieces'. Enjoy Tuesday Poem this week both here and at the hub where Australian poet and author Catherine Bateson unfolds a gem for us... Go here.
