The door looks like
part of the décor
and you need to be
in the deepest part of your mind
to recognise the place.
It smells of moss
and thousands of years
of water dripping.
It never rains here.
The pools reflect nothing
and nobody.
The only way in
is from the inside.
Pelting: washing
the windows
rinsing roofs
rolling mud and stone
downriver
pushing earth
into sea
pulling grass
tree bush creeper
moss
out of dirt
pushing trees over
running
walking
tiptoeing
balancing in the air
stamping its feet
escaping from thunder
rushing headlong
dripping down
lightning’s white path
First, they listen to the wind’s ideas
and take notes.
They suck nutriment from the soil
but never forget their manners.
They bathe regularly in rain
and soak their feet in special solutions.
Measuring distances from star to star
they dream of universal travels.
Also, they touch each other kindly
and play host to thousands of guests.
Jenny said: This poem was published in 1993 in a booklet I prepared and printed myself, to share with children as I spoke to them in schools about the mystery and magic, the pure possibility, of poetry. The poems had originally been written for other children, in response to their requests for a poem on a topic they liked. I had created a business called Poetic Licence and apart from lots of work in schools (via three agents) I also worked at festivals as a roving performer (writing on the spot about anything suggested by those I accosted) at literacy camps, on tour along the Murray River, in country towns and suburbs in Victoria, at writers festivals for children, at Georges and David Jones for special occasions, and at private celebrations, and at schools and the fringe festival in the Kimberleys.
