Two Poems

by Craig Slater

The Farmer's Lesson
for MJS

When I refused
for instance, frowning
stubbornly up at his patient lesson,

he’d pluck snails from the garden
and throw them over the high fence.

I remember crying and running to the house,
not wanting to hear them shatter as they landed.

Even then, convinced more by
eggshells striped like ancient, faded tigers,

than the hidden magic of sullen
vegetables that struggled to grow,

scatter-shot with holes
for some reason.

For Richard Again

I think of your
hands moving like
awkward birds,

hesitantly looking
for a place
to land.

Long boned and
fragile, as if
cobbled together
from the

crashed kites children
failed to fly.

The same resigned
sadness as they gesture at

the gathering clouds.

Craig hails from New Zealand and currently peddles books in Sydney instead of hugging West Coast Trees. Years ago, some fool opened his mind with a copy of Trout Fishing in America, and he hasn't been able to close it again, no matter home many poems he scribbles down. Mayonaise.