Poetry by Sierra McLeod
Sierra McLeod is an Australian poet who’s inspired by the New England region, the Blue Mountains, and Womanhood.
Uralla's September
Cheerleader blossoms twirl, waving pink pom poms to drowsy caravans, elderly eyes sapped from acreage of frost nibbled grass.
An eager bee whispers her excitement in my ear before joining her sisters, hurrying and heaving yellow parcels already laden with the crucial ingredients for their evening feast.
Winter's dying breath sighs throughout New England. The newborn, yet familiar summertime sunlight awakens, kissing my cheek;
a mother kissing her child.
Running the Dogs, Charleston Willows
As the sun kisses the poplar horizon,
And the mosquitos awaken for their appetiser,
The blue and orange rubber ball,
Slices the thin, icy mist.
Blades of grass squelch under-paw,
Mud-caked claws and gnashing teeth,
Muscles burn until exhaustion,
Soothed in the evening by the churning fire.
Garlic
Spindly green fingers push up from the earth,
tickling and teasing the belly of the sky.
She laughs, her heavy chest bellowing,
as her tears sprinkle upon their palms.
Though the day will come
when their fingers will begin to wither,
the months of laughter taking their toll.
I promise to hold your hand
to lift you from the earth,
and enjoy your pungence for months to come.
Vanity
Often I ask myself,
“Why do I never write about you?”
And I have come to the conclusion that it would be vain
To write about a part of myself.
A winter’s morning, a frosted sheet,
flicked and laid across our granite tableland.
Houses start to stir, the first plumes of chimney smoke
Gentle into the sun’s early beams.
I can see your bright eyes flicker under you dark eyelashes,
Though they may as well be mine.
As my thumb gently circles your pink lips,
I can’t see where my hand ends and you begin.
To write about you, is to write about myself.
And to write about myself is vain.
House Panther
Tiny pawprints on my naked breast,
you chirp, mimicking your morning prey.
A hungry cuckoo, how sneaky you are!
Your winter coat beckons my numb fingers,
as you press our chins to touch.
I’ve missed you, sweet predator!
What did you snatch as I dozed?
A housefly? A silverfish?
It’s not in your nature to boast.
Here, rest in the crook of my arm,
and dream of deer-like spiders.