Evening

by Jo Gardiner

Do we love best what remains unspoken?

   How do you read the clouds without

the treason of translation, when you

   cannot speak the dialect of the sky?

In the garden, the quiet mourning dove 

   sounding her evening bell, recalls

the voice of the beloved. The moon’s

   white face floats in a head of ink-dark

hair flowing over night’s shoulders.

   It is autumn and the heart laments:

the sweet summer grasses have died

   away. Leaves, our fallen companions,

settle on eaves. Mouths utter nothing

   but rain. In winged sleeves, crocuses

visit the sleeping garden before shadows

   draw in, and winter closes the black-

boned world down. The garden observes

   all grief in silence. How is it that

I am here now and so at peace. How is it

   you know you’ve arrived somewhere  

even though the language is a tongue

   you’ll never speak—one contained only

in the flutter books, the thread-sewn

                                                            and pouch-bound books of other worlds?  

First published in Faith, 2024 ACU Poetry Prize Anthology

Reprinted with permission from the author

Happiness Is Known Only When Its Opposite Has Been Known…

Joy Is A Gift From On High.

By Rose Griffith

4 AM

In front, the monochrome of the promised dawn over a quiet city.

Behind, the human stirrings of a sleeping ward.

Thirty bowls, bedpans, sheets. Exhaustion.

But first tea and toast with a friend.

4 AM

In front, the lights of boats on a foreign harbour.

Behind, the warm, sleepy body of a lover.

The inevitability of human mis-judgements.

But first the enjoyment of human differences.

4 AM

In front, the southerly buster scuds clouds across the Chase.

Behind, a baby.

Dismay! that in her difficulties I may fail her.

But first to still her cries with human milk.

4 AM

The warmth of our small room,

dim light diffusing through parted curtains.

Talking to Leeara. Pure joy.

‘Hug grandma?’