It's that time again.
When rangey youth
in wounded utes
are sent to pick up tin.
Eyes peeled for
shiny mangled bikes
and steely bits
of thing.
I want to see
the crucible
they put it in.
Behold the pearly
metallurgic
mess unfold.
A gleaming steaming
mass of brassy storm
So cooked
and cooled
and coaxed
and clicked
and jewelled
into mercurial form
Then moulded
bright and fine
once more.
This is the
Copper loop
of life we mine.
Eternal
Circulated
Alchemy
Divine.

I like
to lie
In a park
At dark
In spring.
When the
Wind dies,
And everything
Is just so.
Just clear
as glass
and earthed
On grass
Below
I gaze
at stars
At last
While
crickets
Sing.

Tough day done
not a bit too soon.
Flies down the
freeway, shouts to a tune
with the window wide.
Hair out wild, let the
wheels run home.
And there, slapped
round and high on
a chamomile sky lies the
lilac moon like a poem.
She sings a Spring wind
and sighs out loud
as the day
dies.

Staked
to slate
by ache
and fatigue,
unmoved am i
not a breath
drawn nor exhaled
as the blistering sun
traverses
a merciless sky
like a snail.
I close my eyes
and feel the pulse
i've become,
baked, a beating
continuum.

Supine,
under a quiet
and ethereal sky
i lay down.
leaves behind,
a tired and
wounded mind
and let it rest
against the
splendid garden
of your chest,
while boughs
above sway
gentle chorus
songs of love
that chime
the breeze
with nature's
tenderness

My next door
neighbour has a tree
that looks like jacaranda.
its branches reach right over
here and stroke at my verandah.
if you boil it's seed pods up
and steep a cup of tea,
the brew will mend
a broken heart
i've heard
apparently.

Sometimes
i feel it manifest.
a vice-like grip
across my chest,
as memories
of you possess
my peace and
cast me ******
on silent cries
of absent
breath.