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| Nathalie Buckland |
Nathalie Buckland migrated from England to Australia as a young mother. Always a writer, she has had her poetry, haiku and other writing extensively published both in Australia and overseas. She is the author of a collection of poetry, ‘Shards & Figments’.
London walk
I walk the dirty footpath
dodging dog turds,
soiled newspaper,
crusted vomit.
The summer air is chill
and damp upon my face,
gritty on my tongue-
where is the sun?
no warmth in this great city
except the feel
of a small hand in mine,
his trust that I will guide him
safely home.
Puny power
at the unburned, the unflooded
centre
where starlight sears
and sun destroys
in the quiet heart
I see
my universe exists
both real and illusion
side by side
tangible
and I
create my own
unbounded centre
build pyramids of fantasy
make living breathing flesh and
blood
and tears
and history
with puny power.
Migrant
On a crystal morning,
magpie spangled,
sun pushing through the net of winter branches,
I walk with dewy footprints
to pick the golden bounty of my orchard,
and I remember
the winters of my youth.
Grey, grey, grey
the water-laden sky
lay spread-eagled on the grimy rooftops.
Turning on lights, mounding on clothes,
venturing into the still-dark morning
I slotted into the monochrome stream of workers,
poured seamlessly down the escalators,
hung from a strap
in the clotted underbelly of the city.
Days passed under flickering fluoro
coming, going,
earning, existing, etiolated,
light deprived.
Ah yes, there are things I miss.
Cuckoo call and early snowdrop,
childhood friends, brother, sister, parents.
Sometimes I return.
But always the sun, the sun, the sun
pulls me back
to this place of my heart, Australia ,
home not of my childhood,
but of my children.
Published in Shards & Figments’ ‘Poetic Connections’
2013
Seeing them
A crunch of gravel on the drive—
they’re here, their petal skin
paled by an English winter.
One clings to me,
smelling of boychild,
sticky with sweat and apple juice;
the little one
clutches my daughter’s legs
as she and I
just hold and hold each other.
Picture piles on picture for the week:
small bodies in my bed,
old battered books re-found,
chipped cars, boats for the bath,
my children’s dusty toybox emptied out.
At the pool’s edge my fingers feel
their bird-wing shoulders
slick through sunblock.
The constant ripple of their conversation
fills my days.
Too soon, too soon the kisses and goodbyes.
I wave and keep a smile upon my face,
say ‘see you soon,’ and listen to
the fading engine sound.
For days
balls leap from clumps of grass,
I limp from Lego bruises on my soles,
towels still drape the garden chairs
and pavers carry clustered stains
from ice-block drips, while in the fridge
the milk goes sour.
Published in Dangerously Poetic
anthology ‘All the way home’
Waking
mist waterfalls from the roof
as the rising sun
touches the tin roof
across the drive
the persimmon’s leaves lie
a gaudy garment
shrugged to the ground
leaving naked twigs
to grasp at filmy webs,
dew-bejewelled
a crested pigeon pecks and calls
and from the gum
a kookaburra stirs the day,
shadows shift and the dog
shaking off droplets
flops on the now-warm tiles
stretches and sighs.
