Ceiling fan
finding just the bedroom heat
to twirl and twirl.

After lunch
an octopus tugging, tugging
at the angler’s sleep.

Crematorium
a fine grey dust
wiped from the chairs.

Library books due
back to my childhood
a walk through the snow.

In the winter garden
curled in her lap
the piebald cat.

Winter mists
crossing the lake
with silent oars.

Lily pad
also green with dawn
the old frog.

Harbour winds
the tugging of the yachts
for a midnight prowl.

Winter picnic
our shadows and our edges
lost in the grass.

a white-out fog
in the ghosts of river Gums
no-one hears them drip

A raven caws
the way to the bird bath
is under snow

telescope moon
the pitted craters
of the ancient plains