Sometimes the hills by Joan Webster

Sometimes the hills from my window are just a flat blue wash.

Sometimes every tree stands out as light’s fingers part their hair, search strands, grooming.

Sometimes with sunset looming when glow steals over paddock-scars, the green turns gold.

Always the never-satisfied clouds – silver linings flaunted or concealed beneath black combat jackets – never certain, never still, redo their disguises, redraft roles

(How do I look this way?)

soft heads toss, nonchalantly preening in the mirror of their skies.

Sometimes pairs of birds fly past, living in the now.

Liminal, the moment lingers.


Poem of the Year, Australian Poetry, December, 2014
Published in Australian Poetry Bulletin
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