Cameron Hindrum
Except for the ghosts of houses, an abandoned
town has no memory.
The footprints of man and building dissolve
into gathering ground.
An abandoned river with banks of rust
carries poison-weighted water
away from the rain off the distant bluff.
Rain is merciful, gentle here, no weeping
for open scars or lost fortunes.
The pillagers are gone, having reaped
what they could, leaving us to sow
while soft rain seeps into wounded earth
through piled waste, and taints itself.
Below the scars and wounds and waste
still waters in a forgotten river
watch the lazy sky.
On Reading the Work of
Genevieve Ryan (1984-2005)
Death is absurd at the best of times.
I am reminded of Truchanas, the great
witness of the wilderness, who drowned
in the river he loved. He played Sibelius
while the doomed lake lit up the room.
And Dombrovskis, the imagist, the master
photographer, who died in the grasp of
his majestic art. He too liked rivers
and saved them when he could.
His funeral was held on your mountain.
The same mountain, where
on ice-smooth ancient forest rocks
you slipped out into the void, while
all around you, sentinel trees stood silent.
In ancient religious scriptures it says
that life and death will pass away.
But water will always flow, somewhere
like love.
And memory, happy and clear.
Genevieve Ryan slipped and fell to her death at Newtown Falls on Mount Wellington in February, 2005. Her prolific journals, including poetry and other writings, have been edited by her mother Elizabeth and published as …Regards, some girl with words. (Sid Harta Press)
© Cameron Hindrum
Peter Macrow,
Tasmanian Times Poetry Editor.
Tasmanian poets or those with a Tasmanian link are invited to send up to 5 poems which have not appeared previously in print or electronic media to:
[email protected]
For the complete collection, click here: Poetry, Peter Macrow
