Ashes in lashes,
Dust becomes rust
Enter this Temple,
in You I trust
Three stones at the altar
Five moors to the creek
Seven days for hunting
Nine chains that peak
the blood that seeps,
red through this armour,
wounds what weeps…
Enter this Temple,
enter it full,
From the grove, the forest —
my Lord, my Rule
(C) Christine Ueri
Look! you live in a fortress
with stone walls built up high
the workmanship is old
the roof lets in the sky
there is treasure in the mortar
if it all falls in
the slightest gap a way
for new life to begin
a record of your past
lies hidden here within
the mansion in the sky
is quite unlike these walls
Its Caretaker welcomes you and I
and would never let it fall.
Here we are, nestled in a crisp valley
bunkered by rows of apples, cherries, pears and poplars.
Here in a sun trap shaped by the mountains
rounding us like a sleeping curvaceous woman side-lying
covered in an olive green felt blanket of eucalypts and pines.
Her shoulder point is the top of our hill,
our yellow weathered board cottage
rests in the nape of her knee.
Her feet dangle in the cool trout stream
tickled by blackberries and bracken ferns,
by the rivulet.
Way up nigh the crest of her shoulder,
leading down to the crook of her spine,
lays an open range of field lying open to the air,
uncovered and bare.
Tufts of grass populate the open ground
like goose pimples pricked by a cold southern front.
In Summer the sun peers a brazen eye over shoulder
as an outstretched lovers arm,
by winter it illuminates her waist over glittering blanket of white.
A smooth dirt lane weaves a long crooked leg from the rivulet
to a fork-road navel servicing gates, apple sheds and stables.
It narrows and elevates between the cleavage of tended fields
crawling up the neck, waning into a wallaby lair causeway
leading to thickets of densely woven hair.
Nimble and wiry wildlife dart flippantly into this mat of eucalypts,
accustomed to uninterrupted freedom
to feed and increase.
A variety of bungalows lie dormant
amidst the native and exotic rows of foliage within the valley.
Smoking incessantly, knowing their days are numbered,
the chimneys breathe warmth and life into living rooms
adorned with walls of ancestry.
Layers of generations cover and insulate the rooms,
years of wallpaper, wood, tile and paint,
defending its age and masking the wrinkles of time.
Eyes peer out warped windows twitching at the treetops,
hibernating while the cold becomes stronger.
Bulbs push through the barrier of clay
to herald the coming of Spring
and the blossoms obey
spreading out in their millions,
a white spray along the legs
of lady mountain.