Poem # 92 Current ( Flow of Life )

Would she ever be willful again
she wondered,
now that the little one had been born.
In passion she had conceived and
given birth and now she felt that
her own clearly defined identity
was no longer clear or defined,
now at this place of the merging
of three lives.
A river with tributaries where each
stream became a part of another,
that was the sincere hope;
but just as rivers and streams, especially strong ones
erode their banks, would these two do that to her?
Would their needs and demands
cave her in, suck her dry,
just as the little one sucked now
hungry for her life force.

Poem # 91 Night time Chatham Valley

The fire was built from foraged material,
red.
A blood moon in the west and
overhead
diamond stars.
I looked deep into the flames
to see what was there
a symbol?, a message?.
there was wire that had burnt out of
fence posts and left garbled shapes
in the ashes, and coils of it stood in the fire,
and the coils pulsed red hot deep in the
devil eye coals.
In the half light my horses
had come out of the darkness
and stood in the damp mist
falling from the eucalypts,
their coats mussed rough with
damp and their own eyes
burning with curiousity.
I thought of relationships
nearly always based on expectations
and possibly false promises,
or beliefs; and the coils of wire in the flames
spoke to me of the tangled web
which is life.