These are the wonderful works that appear in The Perfect Diary 2002 in October, November and December 2002.

 

road works

have you heard?
they’re straightening
mangrove mountain
near those wetlands
we used to call a swamp
golf course and mosquito country
cutting out the bends
and that whitewashed bridge
between my town and yours
circumventing memory
in early dawn our gang
of four knee deep in mud
catching claw food
in dark green water
drunk from parties and first loves
bypass that strip of
my thigh against yours
as we swept the bends at eighty
and cried for a girl named yvette
an ibis solid against that
homemade white cross
the smell of the builder’s tip
the snap of mullet breaking water
a rosary of plastic flowers

Andrea Gawthorne

 

Uncle Harry

like most veterans
uncle harry never spoke
of the troops or the trenches
his silence was a cup
in which memory flowed

he poured his tea
into his saucer
blew on it
and breathed it in

but one day
I made some all-knowing comments
about luck and fate and death
and uncle harry lapsed

he said if you survived
that first half year
then you learned to understand
the melody of the falling shells

and in those few words
there was a smear
of contempt for those
who did die

uncle harry poured the tea
into his saucer
it slopped and splashed
onto the embroidered tablecloth

Garth Madsen

 

Snowpath

for Ted Hughes

The boy has dreamt this:
igloo - a clean sculpt of knife on brick
sweet burn of driftwood for body heat
sizzle of salmon in the pan
yellow eyes pacing the margins.

But no such metaphors this far south -
here snowfall has a clock of its own
and a sudden dump may trigger a thaw.
So the boy is ready when it comes.

At first light he’s stamping out
an arterial to magnetic north
retracing, sliding sideways
to harden the path. Even as

the snow tries to overwrite
his sketches with sculpted drifts
but he has an instinct for the brittle
under powder and ploughs on

smoothing, banking to speed,
gauging the lesson of snow fence,
no thought of friends still asleep
to avoid the nuisance of cold.

His mother’s last call to breakfast
is a drizzle beyond the white-out
and no easy cave will distract him now
from that stench of wolf just ahead.

David Reiter

which witch

when I heard her husky voice
felt her fingers on my skin
stroking my hair
I knew Beth meant no harm

whispering she’s a witch
my sister Gretel put me in the cage
needs fattening up she said

it was Beth who let me out
when the oven was hot

it only took a nudge

after supper we scattered
the ashes on the garden

Beth and I live happily
our vegetables grow well

and I love her gingerbread

Jean Frances

mirage

a raised voice;
hers, his and here she is
shouting at her small son
even now, he knows when it’s fair,
when it’s not.
she can’t tell him she’s tired,
exasperated.
he stands glaring,
fists clenched like collapsed balloons.
she should be laughing
then perhaps he would.
“I hate you Mummy” but it’s not hate
that keeps them bound in this battle,
this foolish argument.

later he’ll forgive her, she him
but the silhouette on his memory’s retina
is frayed at the edges.
chip chip
away at this mother image
they’ve enshrined.

by the time he’s her age
he won’t remember she was almost
perfect.

Alison Thompson

memo

this burden of crockery
spaghetti mesh of other lives

too much to pack and unpack
too many boxes too much paper

now time has arrived - engine
running - driving for renewal

time has arrived to evict caution
kill dishes amputate that chair

rip white sheets cut comers
fold stale views open futures

so she takes her pen to write
the cheering reminder list

burn two patterned curtains
bury one doormat

axe the hoover
drown fire alarms

disarm the old fridge
cut parsley

Sandra Hill

Childrens’ Day, India.

UNICEF International Children’s Day of Broadcasting.