feeding
the wattle-birds
my
father loved, two
old folks who walk
up
the mountain
cold
wind and scarves
shawls
and beanies
such
dedication
amid
the decrepitude
Café
Floresco
Botanic
Gardens
where
Dad once worked
and
bright as a cemetery
winter
dirge
in
every label
the
wallaby bush
drenched
in Latin.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.