Woodwind

My didjeridoo Niebelungenlied
wallows brooding as Wagner’s did.
You point to where your back is sore;
I press the didj to the spot and pour
into the knotted muscle moans,
half words, half-animal groans.

Through the wood your responses come.
Who? An Austrian long from home.
What? A sprite playing hide and seek.
When? A week, I’ll be gone next week.
Where? My home—you knew I would.
I miss the wood, my wood.

 

Previously published in Quadrant, 2005, Best Australian Poems 2005 and Another English: Anglophone Poems from Around the World, 2015
Image: Stan Wiechers

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