MUSED
BellaOnline Literary Review
Little Hoot by Christine Catalano

Table of Contents

Poetry


The Island is Magnetic in Winter

Martha Landman

And here I am at Surfers Palm
There a lone figure battles the beach
Clouds grizzle and rise above the gale
The Morton Bay Figís a stature of dignity

The island, on this grey winter-dayís
a cloak of sensuality
Lorikeets bombard my morning walk
Is that a snakeskin slithering wet?

At the pizzeria I lament the drizzle
(The waiters all thinly hipped)
Small talk skirts around my manuscript
And in his thick Italian voice he says
Blue skies just donít work in an English mystery

Itís almost time for lunch
When he tells me how the wallaby jumped his car
Rain bucketing down relentlessly
My tropical respite a mixture of black & white acidity
On a page as grey as the colour of surrender.




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