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Best Famous Dale Harcombe Poems

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Written by Dale Harcombe | Create an image from this poem


 All week, in this rented house, 
 sea spray and whispers of wind 
 weave through the eucalypts, 
 like a Sondheim melody.
Through the pewter leaves the sea glimpsed from the wooden deck is, at times, teal silk.
Other days it is grey.
Longing stirs like waves about to break on the shore and sometimes they lift and swell like hope, as they pound the sand.
From this wooden deck far above the beach, the sand has lost its power to cling and irritate like problems unresolved.
Other times the waves rise and crest, only to evaporate, the way dreams do upon waking.
But I know, when I go home, the sequin of sea spray will linger on my eyelids, sleek and beguiling as a promise.
© November 2002 Dale Harcombe First published in ‘My cat cannot have friends in Australia,’ the anthology of the 2004 Wollongong poetry workshop.

Written by Dale Harcombe | Create an image from this poem

Bruise blue

 Frail as smoke, she drifts
  through the crowded train, 
  bringing with her 
  the cold ashes of poverty.
Without a word, her bruise-blue eyes try to niggle each passenger to part with coins or a note.
The sign pleads her story: Three children in foster care.
Like promises of happier times, some passengers toss hard-edged confetti at her, before hiding behind newspapers or over-loud conversations.
Others dismiss her like an errant child with swift, silent shakes of their heads.
I look at her canescent face and know I have seen her before, on a grey, Sydney day in George Street.
‘Homeless, hungry, and cold’ her sign read then, as she curled like a cloud on the footpath near Town Hall.
In the dusk of a blustery day, people, toting bags emblazoned with designer labels, walked past.
Their gaze sliding away from her like water, they turned toward the nimbus of lights across the street, glittering like angels in the trees.
I walked on too, then wished I had turned back.
But the tide flowed against me.
With nothing else to give I came home and wrote a poem.
© May 2003 Dale Harcombe First published Artlook February 2005