Cul-de-sac

He cleans his car, tecals the bonnet
looks at the engine, clicks his tongue
she hums tunelessly in the kitchen
cleaning the floors, feeding the cats
Each night the cool-blue light
welcomes, he ticks the bills,
mysteries puddle behind the sofa
shadows dance past each other
Gene Krupka plays in the back-bedroom
Ginger Baker by the cat-trays

A cricket sings at the window
hedgehogs rut by the hawthorn hedge
a purple elephant hawk-moth
descends slowly into the warm
dense fragrance of honeysuckle
the green-spike lust of a thyme bush
He watches from behind the shed
she opens the earth for another tree
born of words eluding his guard
escapees from a deep matrix of shadows
a door-jamb worked-over
scarred, a site un-workable
to hackers and bodgers
a sitcom sound-track
chisel mark, saw-cut

Ply by ply marine fine layer
sandwich for a beach picnic
shape sheets a bulwark
a carpenters pencils,
square body snug, hemp rope
wrapped through fairlead
grinning teeth of ripsaw
throws wood-spray before tear
leaves pile like bow waves
black-birds, long-tailed tits
lunge through hawthorn reef
blue sky and flat land
December dusk, skies, mist
he welcomes a memory of a falling star
feels the caress of a jet black Tasman sky
a cradle of diamonds lifting his skin