Peter Tremain

End of Season


quietly

watching for whistle of wing
through bloody sunset
mirrored in home lagoon

cold of the double
chills blued fingers

autumn breath
lives briefly
in frozen air




The Sun Sleeper

He sleeps on

There on his bench
in the thin city sun
as others hurry past him
doing the things that they must do.

Swells of traffic noise
break over him
like ocean waves
that try to wake a rock

Few see
those who do
care little

He sponges in the warmth
its free
night will bring
somnambulant walk
with a paper bagged
bottle of blanket
tucked firmly under his arm.

His only armour against the cold

But for now
he sleeps
to the beat of the sun.




Dream of the Middle Aged Man


There is a rope
coiled neatly
hanging
on the wall of the shed
in the back of his head

There is a branch
reaching out
from the tree
in the park
in a corner of his thoughts

There is a night
waiting
on the path
of his future
in the possibilities of his mind.




Peter Tremain. I am a 48 year old Australian Baby Boomer. I started writing seriously two years ago when my 28 year marriage fell apart. At present, I have no more mental problems than the average Western male, traumatised by life in 2001. However, I was diagnosed with mild reactive depression just after my marriage failed. To me, it was bad and I am OK now. But it made me think, that if this is mild depression, what are those other poor bastards with Bipolar going through?

I work for a university providing Learning Skills services to Australian Aboriginal and students, mainly in the field of Natural and Cultural resource management. I see first hand the effects dispossession has on Indigenous peoples. The incidence of mental illness, alcohol and drug abuse, along with all the other associated social problems, in Australian Aboriginal people is the highest in the Western World. This should be a source of deep shame for my country.




K. Lee Michael Workman Colin Van Der Woude Peter Tremain Rick Parsons Karen Herring Joe Hackworth