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.
so day wore on in shadows
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closely all observed
Magnificent.
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