Robert Adamson Poems

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Reaching Light

Where was it we left him?
We say the journey’s up, but maybe
memory sinks deeper.
Our journey so far

My Granny

When my granny was dying
I’d go into her bedroom
and look at her


A black summer night, no moon, the thick air
drenched with honeysuckle and swamp gum.
In a pool of yellow torchlight
on a knife-blade, the brand name

Creon's Dream

The old hull’s spine shoots out of the mud-flat,
A black crooked finger pointing back to the house.
On the dead low the smell of the mangroves.
The river seeps through the window, the books

The River

A step taken, and all the world’s before me.
The night’s so clear

stars hang in the low branches,

Éventail: For Mery In Paris

Writing this in sepia ink on a Japanese fan,
pain slants my calligraphy
this way, sex just under the cap of my skull.

The Flow Through: For The Johns

We loved the front, your wall of words,
and the fact that snatches made
sense to the professors. We read
The Double Dream Of Spring on a jetty

Green Prawn Map

Morning before sunrise, sheets of dark air
hang from nowhere in the sky.
No stars there, only here is river.

Canticle For The Bicentennial Dead

They are talking, in their cedar-benched rooms
on French-polished chairs, and they talk
in reasonable tones, in the great stone buildings
they are talking firmly, in the half-light

The Gathering Light

Morning shines on the cowling of the Yamaha
locked onto the stern of the boat,
spears of light shoot away
from the gun-metal grey enamel.

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