You must remember this: a kiss is just a kiss. Thirty-six years, however, is significant. This is your birthday pome:
Dreamimg of Yesterday
A full moon over Boho,
A staircase of descending stones,
Numberless bone-cosy fire-warmed nights
And frangipani-fragrant dawns,
Nightly feasts of living flavours,
A deck beneath our feet,
We float above the distant mopoke,
A sea of frozen stars over our heads,
Before we sleep,
Warm spoons curled in intimate hollows.
Do you remember the red glow of burning ash
As the tottering willow flares and sparks?
The silent fall of spare snowflakes on young brussel sprouts
And the taste of our own raspberries, warm on the vine?
Can you still see the garden caught in a rushing tide,
The grass lying afterwards, breathless with vanished floodwater,
Or cool under the giant plum,
While the cicadas strip the hot yellow air of oxygen?
I remember a naked man, flailing the weeds from the dam’s edge,
Ploughing the patchwork of currents across his field of muddy water,
Slipping the narrow roots of tiny trees into the earth,
Conjuring a grove, a vineyard or an orchard with his hands,
Back bared in the fierce sun,
Playing with fire,
Our man on the land.
It’s just a place,
A shabby hut in a rock strewn, dry and weedy gully,
Where we laughed and quarreled and dreamed
And our music filled the air,
I remember you at the station,
And you were always
Happy 61 Jates!