Pot-Shot, at Three

Paul thinks that he can shoot down the moon.
He thinks he can point his finger straight at it,
say Pow! and, in a second or two
the moon will jolt from its socket,
tip sideways, and fall,
not with a fiery whoosh or a shower of sparks,
but in a slow spin through the blue evening air,
through tall black pine trees, to land
with a soft thud, right at Paul's feet.
It will bury the edge of its curve
in the needles, with a faint hiss
where their dampness cools its white skin.
And Paul will stretch out his hand,
touch with his finger, and say
Did I really do this?

page 48

Dunedin: Playing Scrabble with My Aunt

She has fallen asleep
between words.
The white wave of her hair
(I always remember her
netting it in at night)
is tangling the line of her letters.

Outside, yellowed birches
fidget in thin grey rain.
In here, the late dark afternoon
sits still, and waits.

She jerks up. There's a small skitter
of letters onto the board.
She builds 'handle'
on to my 'flare'.

My turn.
Through the window
there are purple hydrangeas
and last brown dahlias.
Rain gathers
on the washing line
in grey glass drops.

I can put 'pause'
against her word,
or maybe 'span'.
No, 'pause' is better.

page 49

On the hill above,
a tall boarded house
juts its verandahs
out over the bush.
(Kinastons', she'd said,
undertakers in town.
She remembers them all,
fathers, sons, grandsons.)
It stares down boldly
to see the next move.

It's hers.

But she's fallen asleep
again.

You

You lie on the grass
with your long hair
hiding your face
I lift back the strands
one by one, and discover
a cherry flower
falling to bits,
a piece of thin glass
and water, running away
into stones

I shouldn't have looked

I lay the strands over again
one by one