The Rag-Picker's Daughter

I saw the rag-picker's daughter
in a dream
crossing the bridge near Mangere

it seemed
a graffitti gauntlet would envelop us
as the train sped onwards

carriages connected, shackled
a steel grey moon reflecting
the winter tracks ahead

Winter

in the season of hot oatmeal
the blackbirds outside
plough the bark for slugs

a grey fog lifts it clammy hand
and an inside dew clings to the
metal frame of windows

away in the valley the snort of horses
shivering with their canvas blankets
flaring nostrils
a huddle of equine locomotives

grey papa cliffs rise behind the weatherboard house
a smoking chimney greets the day

Autumn Two Views

the white snow
of camelia petals
scattered after the storm

daylight dancing shadows
on a wet pavement reflecting
chilled to the bare bones that signal autumn

Roger Smith  April 2011

My Soul Is In Fort Canning

my soul is in Fort Canning
long before the march of progress
incendiary sounds and shouted orders

there are some places you never leave
still others where memories live
amongst the quiet and verdant green

you can feel me in the dank surrounds of battlements
the stillness before the tropical rains
a rhythm of droplets on spreading fronds

in truth I have never left you
the forbidden hill of legend
where empires lost were never reclaimed
and royalty wept at your feet

my soul is in Fort Canning
a quiet meditation still
of universal peace.


Roger Smith. 2011