Moreton Bay Fig

sweet and damp and a little mossy
whiff of red wine and soil
she reaches for the sky
and sheds berries like tears

Thunderstorm

tonight the sky splits open
and water and light
seep through the cracks
so still inside and out
am I at peace and/or of stone?

asking

what is it that makes me close my mind my eyes build a wall around my heart of stone what is it in this place that stops me breathing feeling tasting touching what is it about the place i once called home that is no longer?

Peter

He leans on the kitchen bench
Weight on one hip, writing and
So aware of the sensuous
Curves of his frame.

Probably.

Postcoital.

On the small screen
We watched the world go by
Lying side by side
Like jigsaw pieces.

Postcoital

These things she can touch:

A wisp of hair,

The curve of her neck,

Her flushing cheek.

Instead:

She remembers their kiss

And she waits.

Watercolour painting is tricky, but I think this one has worked out well. The subtle changes in the intensity of the background colour are like a mist or perhaps tear stains, and the female figure is discernible, but incomplete. I enjoy the painting so much more because of its pairing with the poem. There are days when life is new and shiny and nights when ghosts tap and sigh upon the glass -- Postcoital was written during the latter time. Although I wrote it when relfecting on one particular man, the sentiment of the poem is applicable to many of the men I've known. Even when I think I have no emotional attachment to someone or I've severed the attachment, there always seems to be the ghost of one lurking in the mist.

When You

• 
  The poem and the painting were created at different times -- one for someone I love dearly and the other because I had too much blue paint left over from another art project ... but they go together nicely, I think ... something about blue and blue?