A Dream Washed Up


She rests,

like a hundred others,

ignored and forgot.

Tricycle cradled,

blackberry wreathed

and thistle jeweled,

her complexion

blushed moulding green.


Just three

slow declining miles

from her riverside home.

Face pointed away,

eyes spider blind,

she succumbs to blister and rot

as other such

ornaments rust.


A dream

from a foundered romance.

A ragged reminder

Of time drifted by.

Love locked,

by rib, plank and quarter knee,

she sinks back

to the earth.


D L Hume 2nd Quarter 2017


(First Published Nature Writing September 8 2017)


Dream of Tea


I walk east,

I walk west,

to where tall trees rise

and I see distant peaks

inked and washed

onto cumulus parchment.



D L Hume 2nd Quarter 2017



Quarter Acre Horizon

(playing with form)


The dream of home ownership recedes

in the so called developed west,

and becomes accessible

in the not too Far East.

So capitalism,

it would suggest,

should never





D L Hume 2nd Quarter 2017



Rain Bringers (Black Cockatoo)


They labour across the afternoon glow

like parched and strangling bows,

they draw their wings,

cracking the quiet with screeching strings.

They collage the sky with flashes of night,

a portent of rain to follow their flight

one for each fateful thundery shadow.



D L Hume 2nd Quarter 2017





In a dream he visited me.

And with cheerful irreverence

gave to me a spark of clarity.


No all seeing omnipotence.

No hailing horned cacophony.

No light emitting radiance.

No pot bellied philosophy.


No chants and patchouli incense.

No fakir magic trickery.

No stone cast list from one to ten.

No cave dwelling painted sadhu.

No holy ghost risen again.

To sanctify the love we knew

I need not religious men.


We talked and he spoke of release.

I questioned if he was at peace.

Looked into his eyes for a clue

and found precious stones of crystal blue.


D L Hume 2nd Quarter 2017





Are You Off The Grid?


Off the grid

I stand and fall

on my own ability.

Eat seasonally from my garden.

My meat lives in the paddock.

My children have learned where comes from.

And to not waste a skerrick.

The rug beneath your feet

Gave sustenance also.


Off the grid

I know my home intimately

My children too

I feel the land that nourishes

It lives in the cracks of my skin.

I am warm from the wood

I have gathered and split.


Off the grid

My power comes from sun.

My need for shallow consumption is controlled.

I draw my water from the creek

And like its youthful flow

My spirit runs, lifts and soars


Off the grid?

People ask

"Yes we are"

"I wish one day,

but it's so difficult."

They say.


"Yes it is difficult

to turn your back on the soulless crowd,

the well trod path,

the nine to five and more.

Difficult to trust yourself,

Difficult to find the courage

To find your own way.



D L Hume 2nd Quarter 2017





Words — Space & Time


They tumble

from the mind

of poets.

Swabbed in the blood

of visceral birth

they pulse

in trauma,

taking shape

from the terrain

on which they land.


They clatter angry,

falling down stairs,

and come to rest

broken in need of repairs.


From a spring

disordered, they bubble.

Youthful and passionate,

an effusive muddle.


They are spat

full of hate

onto blood stained pages.

Regrets too late.


With grief they drip

with heartfelt sorrow.

To shake death's grip

and ease into tomorrow.


They reach for beauty

to freeze it in time.


they chase the sublime.


Tamed to metre and tone

They become forced and terse

awkward moments standing alone.

Nonsensical verse.


Ordered by rhyme

much meaning is lost.

Ordered by rhythm,

substance the cost.


Made to order

they are ends to means.

A fat man

squeezed into skinny jeans.


Yet given time and space

and careful cajoling

they will run and fall

into small ravines,

wet the earth

and momentarily


To travel underground

through fissures


gathering minerals


Changing colour

and compound

and emerge




distinguished poetry.



D L Hume 2nd Quarter 2017