Linda Stevenson #43 September 22 Not sleeping, listening

Not sleeping, listening

thanks to the almighty

eucalypt landscape

poetry is unconstrained

even at its pointy leaf tips of being

under whose shade

the stream

of its consciousness

is questioned

might

it halt there? where

scrub trunks house

heart merge in

appreciation

of a generational beat?

if not

when where? in the grip/jolt

of ultimate angst? down

the track? and there

we have it

it will

come to its most pertinent

nub

ecstatically wrought words

will burst

as radiation/starlight over the bush

sheathed

encapsulated in brain caves

unspoken unwritten

the final sound

an off the cuff quip

for our comrades.