Poems by Carrie Briffett
page 9 of Tarot #3
Obviously, lockdown can be
And yet on my walks,
So many delightful moments:
A note posted on a bus shelter,
Publicly writing off a friend’s loan—
Keep the 2,000 dollars, Dennis!
Small children run out
Into a garden,
One chasing another
With a huge sweeping brush,
Both giggling and yelling.
A woman walking her pet,
But at the end of the lead—
Tada! A bunny-rabbit.
Even in subdued times,
Against a grey sky,
Vibrant pink magnolias bloom.
The Lighthouse Leaves
page 47 of Tarot #3
“Yes, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow…”
And so, the next day, we went.
But the lighthouse had already left.
No wick-burning, incandescent penal station
for hard-luck keepers.
Instead, we found a young, automated replacement.
Left all alone at Akaroa Heads, the old lighthouse—
French lens; Scottish mechanism; Australian hardwood; Kauri timber—
fell to pieces.
But it took the steep and narrow path to Cemetery Point,
and pulled itself together.
Restlessness is not a desirable quality,
in a lighthouse.
So, it settled closer to the town.
On special occasions, it shines a light on its own history.