The Day after the Election in a Melbourne Backyard

By | 1 June 2014


The cone roosts
in the tree. The sky

responds with blue.
The radio crackles

and the pundit says
we get what we


deserve, electing
a crowd of daleks

with their rind and their
heart of imagination

and a vocabulary limited
to a single word.


Each Louis turns up
its half dozen pins

guillotined by air.
Such a thin moment

is forgotten, says
Luce reading Martin.


Two coins rest
in a weathered palm

while rain
pocks the grey earth

and a sprout pushes
through the soil,


emerges between
the large toe

and the next, uncurls.
This is not imagination

but the green kidney
in its pod, the stalk


beneath the clothesline
and, in the overhanging

banksia, a shriek
when the wattlebird

knows the cone,
knows the tree.

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