Winter

The cold wind cuts like a scythe
through the folds.
Alone at the tram stop I brace,
my coat pulled tight around my chest.
I turn my head to the side
as though its blade will slice just one way.
It doesn’t.

My ribs are cold,
my feet are cold.
My nose is wet and my ears numb.
It’s not the cold of ice and snow.
It’s that damp Melbourne cold,
the cold without reward:
no white Christmas,
no toboggans and twinkly lights.
It’s the cold of a southern July.
June was long and
August snickers around the corner.
Damn, it’s cold.

But it’s warm too —
a warm that only winter tells.
It’s the warm of home once I arrive;
discarded coat and scarf and shoes.
It’s the enveloping warm as the door shuts behind.
Home is embraces, throws and quilts.
It’s fires burning and pots of soup that simmer.
It’s stews that stew with the saucepan lid ajar.
It’s red bean chilis with cornbread,
and warm winter puddings
with custard and cream.
And cheese.
And bread.
And earthy red wines.

The cold is still there,
just beyond the doorframe.
It laps at the porch steps
but now I eye its menace
through the window and smile.
Cocooned inside,
I am reassured.
I have no cause to venture out again.
Not tonight, because it’s cold.

[image from Melbourne Street Photography]

Not at home

Why aren’t you at home?
Why aren’t you there when I come by?
You don’t answer when I call
or play your scrabble move once I’ve played mine.
You’re not there to smile when I walk in the door
— as though just by being me I made your day.
‘Simon Carey’, you would always say.
But not now.
Now the chair is empty
and you’re not there.

I shouldn’t need you.
‘Need’ is a gratuitous word.
I’ve had my share.
I have enough —
a home of my own and a family too.
With hair that’s thin and joints that ache,
I’m long past needs
under warranty.
Your job is done.
My cup is full.
But I still look for you.

I want you to call, you see.
I need you to answer.
I need to drop in and have you hold my hand,
to ask about my beloved ones
and take me on the family tour.
And those questions I always tried to avoid —
I want you to ask them again
so I can deftly weave around them
as I always did.
But you can’t,
so neither can I.

You’re not at home anymore.