A few words you said lay out the line,

As searched along, let out, teased, stretched, tied

An incendiary breath you said or did not say

So vacancy remains, scratched on the face before me;

Nil to add, yet contains somewhere a note of bliss –

Even the thought of it makes me happy.

You know, it skims the case, causes minutes to recede a little slower,

Escaped while skipping a moment’s work or thought or drive …

Beaumarchais, needing the exposure, builds the piece for a king and claims it for himself,

An exquisite folly to an ancienne regime, resting on borrowed time and music of the gods.

Slips to mind so I too can scrape a judgement from barrel lees

let these seconds cry, a reckless moment hung

On an average afternoon on an average day,

One that is measured in advance to carry weight.

But no joy in motion still It rests, and might misplay the steady passing beat,

That nails us to a solid sunny post with just a thread of doubt each way.

A moody shadow hides the hare, long crippled by the heat,

Time tracks its fate. Too late its passed that way.

Note: refers to the poem “Hare in Summer” by Flexmore Hudson, published in Australian Poets Speak, eds Colin Thiele and Ian Mudie, Rigby, 1961