Hydrangeas.

The New World.

Out in the Old West beyond

Before the gangstas, but now.

Paddocks of rye and clover

Tidily fenced with six wires and

One barbed.

Willow in the lows and big night macoracarpa

Along the boundaries.

Pitiless sun.

Through a sharp gap in the dull trees

Two paddocks

One greener than the other

A big black bull stands in his own shadow

The white tip of his tail flicking.

Three Of A Kind.

Wednesday the Seventh.

A poem with a typo

That makes virtue of cliche

Hung in a small close room

With disinterested visitors

Hidden by their own perfume


Tui hits a bum note

Drunk on cherry blossom

In the park where kids on wheels

Learn of physics and pain


An old house with rotten boards

Electric saw cut teeth

Lets in new wood

Soakers, Metalex and bog

And a lick of paint.

No Title.

Spring.

The gorse is fresh and soft

Cadmium coconut petals

Not yet dry splinters

That poison the skin

And burn like a witch.

No Title.