Midnight, and something has fallen into the grass.
We go out to see what it is:
a little chip of light
that’s hard for us to look at.
We kneel and shield our eyes,
we think of those paintings of the shepherds
and the glazed angels
who bring such truth, such happiness.
Above, the stars are wrapped around the world.
There are so many of them,
jostling for space.
In parts of the sky they’re dense, like breath in the cold,
others are off by themselves,
lifted as gently as debris on that calm, black sea.
When we pick it up, its heat
is a marsupial heat, fleshy and generous.
We take it inside, cradling it
in our arms, hoping the night won’t miss this one small star.
I got to go to the launch by Robyn Rowland of John Foulcher’s new book – The Sunset Assumption – at Collected Works in Melbourne. This poem, Star, is from the book. The Sunset Assumption was conceived in Paris while John was in residence at the Keesing Studio. Pitt Street Poetry is a new press and this is their first production which was released as a hardback, paperback and e-book.
I have great hopes for them as a force for good!
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