By Kevin Gillam

and the wind

the wind blew through us. we were small that
day, there and not. sea was scuffed, frothed, whipped,

smear of land far out where blue skirts blue.
wind blew through us. swept us clean, swept us

of tales and ache. we were lost that day,
found but not. one gull, high up, wheeled and

watched. blew through us. we were song that day,
free on the stave, note then note, spume and

a whiff and dried weed, lick and boom of
waves, nudge of groyne. the wind blew through. we

were sand that day, sand and salt and shell
and curled. we were grain that day. wind through

us. glint of sun off the quilt of brine.
we were small and hope. the wind through us

dust bowl days

it was in April I believe,
on a Sunday. Frankie was

on the veranda, chewing
has ‘bacco, spitting and

staring, staring into nothing.
“see how spotty that wheat is

out there?” my eyes take in
swathes of rippling stubble.

“well that short stuff shouldn’t be
brindled like that.” “Drought turns 18”.

that was the header of the
weekly rag. our eyes meet.

“these are dust bowl days”. a gob
of his spit folds in gravel

the colour of healing

it’s a thick silence,
unrehearsed and accidental,
with the house suddenly empty.
rare, in a home like this –
grand piano, two ‘cellos, violin, guitar –
three musicians and a dog,
Bach Chaconnes, Chopin Preludes and
high pitched whines joining ‘cello duets

has me thinking though,
about the repositories of silence
because it’s been here and waiting,
in the 45 degrees of stairwell, the angle
providing harbour, a balloon of silence
the colour of healing

About the Author:

Kevin Gillam

Kevin Gillam is a West Australian writer, ‘cellist and music educator. He has had 4 books of poetry published, the most recent being “the moon’s reminder” with Ginninderra Press. He works as Director of Music at Christ Church Grammar School in Perth.