Inge Haupt
Chewing CudArchive for nature
The Sacrifice
They knocked on our door.
Bright silver buttons reflecting the shine of their smart leather boots.
A salute,
Ma’am.
We have a proposal for your boy.
We will make him a man,
Give him an education, an income,
A sense of purpose in a …
He paused and scanned the sapphire-bolt sky,
The lazy cream clouds,
The grass bowing eagerly to the wind
Teasing the dandelion seeds from their grasp,
Then thrusting them, tumbling through the air,
Mimicking the flock of swallows
Soaring gracefully on the updrafts.
But he was looking at the broken fence,
The uncut grass,
The rusted car,
And the paint peeling off window-panes that no longer shut fast.
… purposeless existence.
I blushed, we were poor.
This might give him a chance.
They could keep him away from the danger,
Put him at a desk.
He had a head for numbers,
Let him work the code.
Ma’am, please encourage your son to join us in Iraq.
I nodded.
Wind
The blast erupts off the precipice.
Pure force falling down the ravine,
Like someone up there is pushing it,
Forcing its fall.
And it falls, gathering speed,
Rolling through the trees,
Howling
As it tears leaves
And whips them into the summer frenzied air.
And as it reaches us,
This ball of force,
It evens out and spreads,
Pooling in the dam of treetops,
Feeding of the excitement of quivering leaves,
Curling my skirt around my knees.
And rustling,
A low, deep chuckle of delight,
Stirring the exhilaration in my breast
Before the sluice gates open and it moves off into the night.
The Poet
A poet sits quietly on a hanging tyre swing
Under an old bluegum tree
And waits.
Waits to paint the world as it slowly manifests before the eyes.
A little lavender here,
Fuchsia there,
Green darts bouncing between blades of grass.
A shoot of brown bark
And a huge swathe of brilliant blue
Onto which tendrils of cloud are teased with a tapering stroke.
A symphony of notes is thrown up like confetti
And clings to the clouds.
A little quaver here,
A warble there,
A trill, a chatter,
A chorus of cheeps, chirps, tweets, twitters.
Colours hurled from bush to tree,
Red to green.
A musical of song and sun and dancing grass.
A poet sits quietly on a hanging tyre swing
But cannot begin
To describe this blessing.
