Almanac Poetry: ‘Scales’ – Tommy Mallet






I’m tree arbouring
on the NSW south coast to pay
my way to a job in the tropics, Up North.
It’s dark at work’s end, but still hot.
There’s been no rain for months,
everything’s tinderbox.


Making my way down to the river, I walk along an old
forgotten jetty that almost grows from the bush.
There’s no wind, the water’s surface is
toneless, rolling glass.


By looking down I can see the Milky Way.


A lightening storm slowly works its way over
the opposite ridge,
with very little thunder.


I watch the clouds beneath my feet,
dark grey and silver, caught by
distant moon.
Every time there’s more lightening
they pulse like beautiful, angry jellyfish,
in the never-ending liquid
of a river framed by a billion stars.


A large trout bursts from the water,
silent storms in its gills,
constellations in its gaping mouth,
black water in its lungs.


It holds the universe,
and time.


A few more do the same


I take off my clothes,
place my beer by my shoes,
and dive in,
to wash off work’s grime
by swimming with prehistoric things.




More from Tommy Mallet HERE



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  1. Nice stuff, Tommy !

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