Tuesday, October 10, 2017

James Walton #77 I wore a day as showy as

The Wonga vine is late
this long Spring year

like drunken party guests
who finally arrive
in tumbling blowsy silk

dancing a too close Latin
manes tangled in the distance
parted by a cigarette paper

(although we’ve heard
about the separation)

a vicarage of noisy miner birds
tries to chaperone
their pursed censure all bravado

as others depart slowly
pretending not to watch.


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