A Polm for Murphys.

Anonymous said...


such a sad story but true could u make a polm for the town please


azza

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If I were to draw a map of my Murphy’s

In the old days

I would be kissed here.

        And there - high on the hill.



My poetry would follow the terrain of the land,

Each sonnet a hill,

        Each song - a contour.



A bath of red rose petals is drawn,

further along the road, to the left.

        It seemed nice - but it wasn’t.



Cups of tea and conversations lay to the lower place,

Across the dusty paddocks of thistle and cactus,

        Taking bags of carrots - for the horse.



On my Murphy’s map, is a tree.

A huge gum, shading the water

        As it glides - beneath.



My old cat is buried there,

Wrapped in a green shirt,

         He dreams - of mice.



On my landscape is the road I rolled my car.

Driving backwards to the tune of Oh! My! God!

It was never going to end well.

        And yet - it did.



My world of Murphy’s contains the valleys and the crests,

A meandering effort tracing across the page

Where everything seemed so important

        And yet - it wasn’t.



Today’s map would be different, drawn in a shaking hand

Containing rips and scars,

Lumps of land would be missing,

Chunks of lives would be smashed and splintered

        Against - the edge of the page.



If I were to redraw the Murphy’s map today

I would hesitate to put pen to paper.

I would scribble in purple, a healing softness.

        A purple map of love - and hope.



But I’m not a map maker or a person that can

Hold a pen with such precision

        As to redress the past.

I can only guide a hand towards the future

Whatever that will be.

We are all architects

        Of our own - life.


~~

...and so I did.


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