dawn layers of
strawberry mousse,
mosaic magpies
diving behind fawn branches,
Australian ravens
bulky in the understorey,
balsa planes flying
upstairs from the airport
then the café, the
jibberjabber of patrons,
the tale of the
easterly cupping the spoon —
but remember the
walk,
latent as a folded
umbrella,
the green arsenic
poles,
the paths from Lord
of the Rings,
the sun in a dark
fog,
the smoked glass
morning,
the lake
of glass and steel and concrete through treetops,
the mind pump-primed
with glass words and vistas,
the massacre of seed
pods by a
road of rust, rusty
as blood,
an anthem for doomed artists,
scoria mumblings in
a low gallery
of wine-soaked genteel giants,
they painted a
mountain to go
with the name
but took the top off
to save money, ha
ha,
jibberjabber,
spindly towers of
Purple Kings against
the once-dapper fence,
and the beanstalk
Dad built at Pialligo,
the
sunk-in-the-middle fruitcakes of Mum and that
bloody low iron
stove,
the glider catapult
Dad made for me which the farm kids wrecked
when to his disgust
I failed to sally out and intervene
instead, I remain
with wandering wonders,
lace piledrivers in
a productive pile-up,
the breastfeeding
Goddess in the window,
the spiny
medicos touting miracle cures,
the rogue petal of
market mildew whose daughter was a cod,
hardly going mad in
the right place.
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