Edge Poem by Rex Archibald

The graveyard was too small to hide in for long
and it was raining anyway
so I moved on after one night.

I regretted it in a way.
I wanted to tap on tombstones
and wake up some company.
But the dead had been there a long time
and were probably thirsty.
And damned if I was
sharing my bottle
with some corpse.

Next night I moved into the railway carriage.

I came and went in the dark,
hiding my bag in the scrub.
I tried hard to appear like a human being,
keeping clean,
always watching for
blue and red lights.

On the third night the wind came up
and blew the rain
through the busted sides of the carriage
so I moved on again.

Under bridges,
in the bush,
up on the mountain.
Anywhere that wasn't another cell.

Not yet anyway.

That was a thousand years ago.

Now I'm sitting in the shade of a Norfolk pine,
reading.

It's a sweet spot,
soft grass,
overlooking the beach.

I watch the waves crawl onto the sand
and search amongst the rocks
before they
suck back out
towards the ships
hanging on the horizon.

The east wind flaps around in my shirt
and turns the pages of my book,
hugging me like a once lost friend.

I haven't even opened a beer.

Yet.

Just letting the wind
fill my skull
with dreams
from the edge of the world.

Just don't tell the boys
I'm reading
Poetry.