To Louk
That he will
wake up
just before daybreak
pick up a book
some paper
and a pen
his glasses
comb his hair
and with his sandals
and short trousers
armed with a camera,
opens the door, leaves
and touches his garden
in a soft breeze
greets the birds
lifts his leg over the side
and his other leg
in his vest
sandwiches
and a thermos of tea
with his pocket-knife
he cuts the lines
and takes off mastestically.
people become ants
cities, dots
roads, hairs
and lakes, drops
until he, so high,
higher than the birds,
soaring in the vast sky
oversees
how many miracles the world is
recognizes
where all his friends live
softly floating
without any force and wind
free and flowing
on an unknown current
to again new
knowledge
new ways of knowing
Jehanne Hulsman
The 32nd Wave
At Bherwerre where the ocean crashes
Over the solitary five mile strand
I’m sure I heard your voice …
Beyond the thirty-second wave.
Kayakers will tell you that’s the one
That swells and rises, surely and calmly,
Emerging purposefully with force and passion
Its crest glints sharply with grace and dignity
Dancing ashore to move hearts and minds
That was the moment your laugh was with us
Pitched, as always. above the maelstrom
Generous and warm, forever Louk,
Taking hold of the thirty second wave.
Phil Scraton
Booderee
NSW, Australia
15 February 2009
