the days subsides,
with adoring colour
and the racous choral,
of retiring lorikeets.

we sit upon the deck,
cold bevvies in hand
and watch the master
painter at work,

over on the mountain range
the clouds gather.
ben, laconically states,

"storm tonight"

and yes that smell,
so wonderful,
sits heavy in the twilight air.

petrichor, heavy on the eucalypt, ****** beer,
and warm tar....
the smells of a stormy,summer afternoon.

lost,
adrift,
led astray,
just disappeared,
nowhere to be found,
slipped, down, between    
                                the cracks.
irretrievably, wayward.
gone... the way of flying pigs.
that qoundam, thought has
                     now...gone awry.

i think,
with years of sunday school,
indoctrinated guilt....

there is a small wavering
line between......
                              deceit
and kindness....

as i tell my aging mother....

she looks fine.