My Other reminds me of a Viking prince

piloting a hot air balloon

in Central Desert cumulus.

Currency-lad come good,

no need to spend his rent on a nicked Beemer.

His old mates take the prize for mayhem.

I see him barefoot in the weekend market,

selling silver charms, and does it charmingly.

In lordiness he has taken up a Device.

Though it burns his fingers he can’t give up.

Sleepless all night he sleeps post noon

in a director’s fold-up chair

in a quiet style that impresses everyone, but

on waking nothing’s guaranteed.

In a re-make of Ned Kelly.

Military talents? The portraitist finds

an Irish lilt in our genes, in his grey blue eyes.

He slaves hard for a rest on Sunday.

A statistic diversity, a fishing rod

with a Kelpie on long term love, slathering

for a chase a bone a biscuit.

Winters he works another 50 mutts for cash

in some western desert town

fond of trailing afterthoughts.

Post-human? Maybe. My little bro

chewing a chip or an apple

5 thousand feet in the air.

His mother held him a long while, and turned the key.

Fluent as a green leaf in a local forest,

total strangers embrace him in the park.

in his garden, and within it sky-gardens of recall.

He sees a beach down there in Lake Eyre

invented just for him.

He will never grow sad, even without me.

He prefers to laugh. He finds it easy.