Gethsemane at the Bowl
(after the monoprint by Michael Donnelly)
Stars empty themselves –
no show tonight.
The Bowl opens its mouth
and your teeth shudder.
The ground contracts with cold:
Your head falls against the steel cables
the lights go off in Government house.
Far above you the Arts Centre spire
extends its white finger into the night:
gulls circle crying
holy holy holy
a Leunig festival of weeping
alone in the dark
while Government house is sleeping.
Stars get nailed to the night sky.
You take the silence
for an answer.