December 13th, 2020Local Lines

The moon called me from sleep
and said, go and see the tiny flowers at Gariwerd.
I went out into the night bathed in Luna’s beauty
driving through empty streets as the radio
played Dvorak’s Song to the Moon
the soprano soared above violins
and I knew the radio announcer had been summoned as well
as he said this is the day Adams took
a famous photo of the moon rise in 1945 in New Mexico
the half light between dusk and dark
makes dull places look extraordinary.
I drove on through towns where people lay sleeping,
beset by memory of past journeys this way
until I arrived at the Djab Wurrung embassy fenced off
and guarded by men in hard hats and orange vests,
reporting my presence by phone to headquarters.
Here every tree here looks sacred,
in a wild frozen corroboree of branches.
Then the moon shone on a dark church
looming on a hill rise entering Ararat
bearing the name Immaculate Conception
A joke belied by the memorial of coloured ribbons on the fence.
The street is lined with senescent pines, some long dead
Why aren’t they cut down yet and flung from Ararat
where no ark came to rest
The mountains come into view with the dawn
And I search for the exquisite wonderland of flowers
But it has changed since last I was here
No longer wild, but manicured, organised, rocks pulled into place
Car parks full of SUVs never used for cross country
Barriers at the edge of cliff faces for fear of being sued
By someone lured by the pull of the fall.
Being safe constantly is a worse fate, at the edge the lights come on.
Somehow, the holocaust of trees of past summers
Stole the magic and replaced it with chic restaurants
I left and drove on and on into a zone where no sightseers bother
On and on till the natural world was free of tethers, star pickets
And fluoro signs barking directions
Until at last, a wow moment
of banksias, the balgas black boys and little flowers
and each ridge of mountain with a rocky face
drew me all the way from Halls Gap to Dunkeld,
Nothing smart here but quiet, undisturbed
Trees growing to shade sheep.
I drank it in and pondered the moon asking me
To blow away the dust of memories
By shining her light to see with new eyes
That being utterly without hope
Is a doorway to the rainbow bridge
and losing your mind is the key that opens it.

• Frances Guerin

Frances Guerin’s studio is located outside the spa town of Daylesford in the Wombat Forest. Her studio serves both her creative spirit and visitors who come for open studio visits, community exhibitions and meditation practice. Her background in philosophy and transpersonal psychology lends itself to deep enquiry into human consciousness which informs and generates her prolific art practice

Local Lines are mostly written by a group of local poets but if you would like a poem considered for publication, contact Bill Wootton – cottlesbreedge@gmail.com