Andrew Burke Poems

Reading Sheila’s book and stirring the porridge is a plaiting: tactile, rhythmic. The dog barks to have such fun, or wants it. Rain primps on our tin roof, veranda dusted off, biddable as
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As I walked out late along Paragon Road
among students going hither and thither,
I heard a trained voice – male, operatic –
singing quietly to itself, ‘Maria, Maria’,
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Many have been more exotic places, but this
you offer us, a taste of our land. The air
so crisp with chill we wear entire wardrobes
like hunters' furs - jeans over track pants,
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Standing at the edge of
the Western Desert,
minus 2 degrees Celsius,
I listen for
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I lie on the surgery table
staring up at the hanging
anatomical drawings of the forestry
around the skeletal frames
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each block of wood
a head to chop
each plant
earth pushing up
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I see us now on the cliffs
of the Swan River by
the slumbering suburb
where my brother and I fought,
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One poppy bends in the wind
precarious as
my memory of our driveway
bordered by poppies -
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Today, our kitchen radio crackles
and I remember your crystal set,
its antenna running around
jarrah fences, under the grapevine's
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As a late afternoon seabreeze
rattled the sleepout's louvres,
Father sang -
'It's illegal, it's immoral,
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