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Sunflowers
Karen Denford Sunflowers grow in my body, Their shoots curl up from my toes Tickling my skin and my muscles – Trying to grow big I suppose! Sunflowers grow in my body, Their leaves wave Hi! in my hands, Hi! I smile back to them, Skipping along in sunshine sand. Sunflowers grow in my body, Their petals are kissing my cheek! So soft and so gentle like water, Over pebbles in a rippling creek. |
Sunflowers grow in my body.
Oh look! My skin has turned green, I’m like fresh grass in the field, Feeding twin lambs in spring. Sunflowers grow in my body, Their stems are so tall and so strong, Turning each day in warm sunlight, Circling our world with my song. Sunflowers grow in my body Their seeds sparkle, jostle and pop! My heart pitter-pats messages, Dewdrop, dewdrop, dewdrop. Sunflowers grow in my body, A whole field is alive in my arms! I’ll carry them close inside me, For all millennium! |
Brolga Girl
A brown girl taps at her shell with her teeth,
eyes closed from the sticky liquid. She taps,
the egg wobbles, she taps and taps.
She cracks into the sun, she’s listening.
Sticky liquid spills into the dust, blood spot,
colour of the grevillea flower.
Brolgas pound over the plains, bodies
forming one body, dipping, swaying.
The brown girl crinkles her eyes, she curls back
to the startled shelter of the egg shell.
Her shell is thin, light still stings her eyelids.
So she comes out, blinks at the brolgas and sits.
She pokes her elbows out, pecks at the base
of juicy plants. She tries to trumpet like a brolga,
but her voice, is the voice of a brown girl,
a skimming reed song over the river.
For thousands of years, the sun rises and sets
over plains red, gold grasses, shadowed trees.
The brolgas search for the brown girl,
a plaintive voice is heard in the reeds.
Sunlight strikes thin, cracked egg shells,
blood spots colour of the grevillea flower.
She’s here, firm body swaying in the wind,
her song, attuned, listening, a soft melody.
Karen Denford
(Image: Sidney Long, (1897) Spirit of the Plains)
A brown girl taps at her shell with her teeth,
eyes closed from the sticky liquid. She taps,
the egg wobbles, she taps and taps.
She cracks into the sun, she’s listening.
Sticky liquid spills into the dust, blood spot,
colour of the grevillea flower.
Brolgas pound over the plains, bodies
forming one body, dipping, swaying.
The brown girl crinkles her eyes, she curls back
to the startled shelter of the egg shell.
Her shell is thin, light still stings her eyelids.
So she comes out, blinks at the brolgas and sits.
She pokes her elbows out, pecks at the base
of juicy plants. She tries to trumpet like a brolga,
but her voice, is the voice of a brown girl,
a skimming reed song over the river.
For thousands of years, the sun rises and sets
over plains red, gold grasses, shadowed trees.
The brolgas search for the brown girl,
a plaintive voice is heard in the reeds.
Sunlight strikes thin, cracked egg shells,
blood spots colour of the grevillea flower.
She’s here, firm body swaying in the wind,
her song, attuned, listening, a soft melody.
Karen Denford
(Image: Sidney Long, (1897) Spirit of the Plains)