Poetry

Late Sun in February

This hill takes diamond when a slant of sun ignites each filament and tilted grass must show how blonde is rampant to go vagabond in streaming pinheads where a wind, that’s fugitive, yet disciplined, directs each needlepoint of gleam toward my elsewhere and my home. Then hill takes opal, seed-heads shy their orange facets at the sky, and the bushland’s underlit by orange that transfigures it. This bridle path tracks Telstra wires where frogmouths hunch on their desires while in the rife stormwater ditch endangered frogs locate their pitch. I can’t live easy in my times. Who can? Some discontent…

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