September 2018

Back to Issue 4


By Les Wicks

Bleach & blow-dry sand supports an argument

between three ageing Macedonians.

I join in, the subjects are important –

politics & water temperature.

The sky refuses to take sides.


So near the airport, fish stare up at the planes:

they are the stars under adamance

for all those furtive lives amongst the hooks.

This bay goes all-ways

& I am stationary, fixed upon

the myths of departure & flight.

There’s turnoffs just south a bit – CanberraWollongong.

As a ketch absconds towards the sea

busses offer Dolls Point & Sans Souci


My bicycle has reluctantly taken me north from Cronulla –

these things like dogs take on their owner’s appearance –

loose screws & rust, a pitted grey writes notes at the sky.

My faith is a thorn, intent as gulls

I feed on other lives, wrapped just in an old laugh.

This emptiness, the loss of shadow

& cantankerous memories crowd the bikelane.


Back home there’s money matters, a skittery dialogue

with a neighbouring cancer &

the computer’s sober judgements of me

after wagging work all morning.

None of this is enough, I always argued with gods.

They should stop their stubborn shine –

edges have sung at me for years, I’ve seen

colours you wouldn’t believe, my hurt filled the balloons of shame

to pass as an excuse. This is now a little world comprised of

cotton shorts & dabbed sunblock.

Perhaps if we all took it as plenty

there’d be the air to save.

I’ve got to stand for something

& this will do.