I realise/realize thiis is not a forum for poetry - but I've been away for a bit, without a reliable link up in Cradle Mountain, and made a few observations in my eye torn awe warped view of the sheer beauty of this place:

Naming a mountain. Cradle Mountain April 2018

“The Diners”

Rain wracked restaurant
Buffet slowed, bloating yet buoyant
After coffee, waiting, waiting
For the mountain to clear
And cool, cold to switch with warm

We wait, welded to our residence
For that peak to reveal itself,
Fully contented.

I have posted this piece,which I'm working on - and requires work, I've read it, and recorded it myself here: https://soundcloud.com/user528181418/the-confession-of-joseph-barclay

I'm sure someone could do it more justice..

It's called:

"The confession of Joseph Barclay".

BEGIN:

"Da Rosa, nada digamos agora"

The last century, has come, has gone,
come with me now, I will sing
its song.

Soon, I'll be leaving Hobart heading back to the hills, mainly for economic reasons. I still be coming down here from time to time. For the few years that I've spent in the swell of the city, with Mount Wellington perched above it, and it's rivulet flowing through, it's withering and flourishing suburbs, for all it's cultural backwaters, and for it's cultural richness, it presents many conflicting perspectives and much inspiration.

Observations from the lookout of the Bruny island neck (Tasmania) - where there is a small tribute plaque to Truganini (last surviving tribal Aborigine - many desendants still on the islands) - a truly beatuful place, but with a certain troubled past:https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Truganini

On the neck of Bruny island

Tributes to Truganini

Aquamarine sea

Exploding surf

No penguins.

Vistas unmatched

Bluffs that hide nothing

Where the accepted cannon's line of sight
converges on a school, and sizes up
it's next target recruits

Where the only wounded soldier limps past
by inches as a victim of circumstance
in the war that tobacco won

Where, farther down the harbour road
no warships are in sight
above the church spires

Only superliners blot out the light
of ornate buildings that remind us,
tourists are tramping near

It's gargantuan nose nuzzles our
ragged shore, but
there are no fatalities here

Departure to possibility

The space left in the panes,
where her shadow has gone

now filled with the lemon light
of the sun

full is the hallway, with rays
curvilinear

There must be something in that drench-light
that wants us to step in to her lustre

Then out to here, the retreating quiet
of a room

With wedding veil windows onto beyond
the emerald spray of trees

the dome of that hill, and verdant,
quiet in the dew of morning, I see: