Tin Horse

A horse
made of tin
lay baking
in the sun
beside the outhouse,
mama’s wine glass
resting on the gravel
where she left it last
glistened in the heat
my eyes sore
from the lemon-grass trees
pine needles prick
the back of my feet
my nostrils flare with dust
black sheep
red dog licking at my feet
all around
blend with dirt
like roots to the earth,
crows to pick their bones
Papas skin
sleep he does not know
call to the blue bells bush,
The horizon beacons across
the remote
like western light touching
the window pane,
in quiet isolation
This is where I call home.




J Calvert Photography 2015


J Calvert Photography 2015

I’ll leave it all behind,
The seaside,
The idle place of space growing in secrets and sighs,
The look on your face,
When you ask me why,
The heartache of this shaded and sinking town,
The ageing souls,
The cracks in the road,
The minds ghosts,
All taking its toll,
I’ll leave it all behind,
Still, my heart will yearn,
For a time long past,
For my hometown.

In Mustering

photo courtsey of www.telegraph.co.uk

photo courtesy of telegraph


In mustering,

Sweat and sheen,

Tanned arms glistening,

As rope wraps around the throat, lassos,

A cowboy,

Of dusty plains,

A man of the earth,

Of salty skin,

Of dirt and bloody hands,

His a cowboy in the outback,

A poisonous thrill,

He rides his horse below the southern sun,

Never still.