What say you? Shall we dance at noon? Sit amidst the Silvereye's Playground of golden limbs Crumbs picked off tables Sparring with families Wrens and yellow-throated Honeyeaters, whose plumage Blends beautifully In the dappled grove Of Autumn
Telling tall stories Interspersed with gluttonous Bursts of jam packed lips Licked clean with cream Tales of loves lost and found A local muse renown As fallen leaves we pine For far away spring Fawning
Need not be a bad thing Laying eyes upon the world Though one absent Arousing beauty within A momentary glimpse An hour, a day What of it? It plays over Again endless Pictures of you Parade through chaos Marching bands Entwining hands Only mine at twilight
He kept a fossilised shell Plucked from highlands Of Papua New Guinea Proof of the flood, he mused It remained on window sill Overlooking rivulet Tasmanian native garden Decked with terracotta pot violets Greeting me at the stairs A huon pine drooped drearily In the shade on the way To wrought iron tables and chairs I would finish the dishes from fossil shelled kitchen window Spying the revelry outside Before bringing tepid coffee from new machine At Christmas time All the while forgetting To call my own family A thousand miles away