University of Sydney

M.T.C. Cronin

poem in a hot day
(mrangalli, february 1998)




it was resting by the side of the sun
on a blade of grass

the pumpkin patch did nothing in the heat
the closed umbrellas of its leaves
hooding pale green planets
orbitless in their dead weight

nothing was not still but insects
and the running tap
which took all sound from the quiet country
in its patternless flow

music was imagined in this place and not needed
stories thought themselves and unravelled
beneath clouds spread thin as the blue sky
turning white in the height of the day

all that was able to tell the trees their becoming posture
the birds their shadows
and the fallen fruit on the ground
its unremarkability - so purple! so red! so yellow!

was the poem found clinging
to a blade of grass
it is true
it is squashed on one side from where I sat

but the reddest ladybird with the blackest spots
tickles its edges
and they talk goldly in the slow language
of the Summer

occasionally I brush my lips with my fingers
but the horizon does little
only wavers an instant as if it might trust the air
and disappear


M.T.C. Cronin's two collections of poems, Everything Holy and the world beyond the fig are reviewed in this issue.


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Vol 3 No 2 October 1999
Editors: Nigel Krauth & Tess Brady