One More Sonnet

Category: travel

  • Refletions in Silicate

    Refletions in Silicate

    Both sides of me – glass. Across the street – glass.
    A township’s reflection in silicate.
    I watch a car, I see it three times pass.
    Gleditsia – a sunburst in triplicate.
    Waitress serves coffee, delivers it thrice.
    A school bus on route to three destinations.
    Thread of pedestrians – a three-way splice.
    Parked vans in parallel situations.
    An over-weight figure stretches and shrinks.
    From the pavement’s perspective, three lines switch.
    A chain of clients making awkward links.
    Three panels of distortion – a triptych.
    . The arcade – a see-through kaleidoscope.
    . A visual illusion of words in trope.

    © Tim Grace, 15 October 2013

    To the reader: Taree is a small town on the central coast of eastern Australia. Over three mornings, I found myself in a coffee-spot, positioned in a neat and tidy arcade, overlooking a sleepy main-street. With glass all about me, I peered out from within my squared-off telescope and captured a kaleidoscope of reflections; as the town began its business: in country towns the streets are wide, with rows of trees on either side.

    To the poet: As a stranger in town, you are invisible on the first and second day. By day-three, however, your regular habits have been revealed and noted by the observant local. The guy behind the counter knows your coffee-preference, the waitress works around your table-setting of books and pens. There’s a polite expectation, not quite an obligation, that you explain your purpose. Towns, just like people, are a little suspicious of strangers with pad and paper.

    Reflections in Silicate Reflections in Silicate
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/uQB68AaFLtk
  • Seven Wells

    Seven Wells

    I’ve sapped this scene of all there is to write;
    nothing more to draw from its sketchy frame.
    Anything left to say is said in spite
    of inspiration; lyric’s lilt is lame.
    Woman in the corner shuffles her stuff,
    skuffles by my table, and then she stops:
    “Oh, you’re a poet” she says. Sure enough
    she wants to chat, she hovers, then she props.
    Her life’s story starts with George: “That Bastard”
    who left her in ’89; battered wife
    left to pick up the pieces, a discard
    who’s deal it is to share – trouble and strife.
    . Rhonda Sewell – the woman of seven wells.
    . Well connected to Bradman – so she tells.

    © Tim Grace, 18 May 2013

    To the reader: With trepidation I engaged with Rhonda. She had broken my creative bubble and had entered my preciously guarded meditative zone. She was not one to regard my space as sacrosanct. Disarmed, I surrendered to her nomadic narrative. As her story unfolded it became clear she was in transit. Rhonda rode the Australian train system sharing stories with strangers; coast to coast she lived her own anthology.

    To the poet: Check out “Travellers by Rail” where long-time traveller Rhonda Sewell states: “I love the SunLander because you can buy bacon and eggs for breakfast on it… you can’t get that on a plane. And the only thing you can see on a plane is the bloody clouds” http://www.railpage.com.au/news/article-4325 Need the poet say anymore? I think not.

    Seven Wells Seven Wells
    Picture Source:
    http://www.railpage.com.au/gallery?image=29140
  • Best at Dawn

    Best at Dawn

    To a hillside, a crop of houses cling,
    overlook a harbour; a city-port.
    White-washed walls absorb a sunlit morning.
    Train-tracks and traffic underline a thought.
    Birds, gulls and terns, etch the sky with traces
    of a coastal breeze; pelicans are drifting.
    There’s a long wharf with cargo in cases.
    Cranes begin a day of heavy-lifting.
    Yellow bus gives way to a staggered start;
    the zig-zag pattern of a day takes shape.
    A city’s plan runs the way of nature’s art;
    suburban portrait draws a cityscape.
    . From the suburbs a cityscape is drawn;
    . sunshine (as the artist) draws best at dawn.

    © Tim Grace, 21 January 2013

    To the reader: A new day deserves a fresh dawn. The shadows of yesterday cast aside. And so it was in New Zealand when I woke to a brand new vista. The harbour was already abuzz with import/export activity; an intermingling of nature and business trading terms of interests. The hillside-suburbs, slow to wake, were beginning to stir. Life resembling art…

    To the poet: … and who was the artist? The sun. In every respect, this consummate colourist was controlling the medium. The pallet was crisp, not saturated, with cool blues and deep greens. A yellow hue was attending to dark remnants of lingering night. The solid canvas of horizontal swatches became animated with small features of meandering life … drifting, sifting; lifting the day on its way to a zenith noon.

    Best at Dawn
    Best at Dawn