New Doubtland

I used to wear childhood 
as if it was 1979, 
uncertainty hanging awkwardly 
like a small yellow raincoat 
from the cloak room hook; 
a mini series about the Holocaust 
was on TV; music had gone disco; 
the decade like the sky dripping 
onto the wooden floor. 
I wrote a story about our futures. 
I wrote that some days the clouds 
wore dark aprons across the plain 
like farmers, standing at evening, hosing 
down the emptied yards, dreaming 
they were loose forwards in the rain. 
I wrote that the sheds 
looked like distant solar systems. I wrote 
that I dreamt our hearts would descend 
like spaceships in the dark. 


Michael Hall has been published in NZ and international journals, including LandfallMeanjin, and Queens Quarterly. He lives in Dunedin.