I wrote a kookaburra
perching on a paling fence
motionless in the rain,
sharp eyed waiting for a worm,
but the words left worm impressions
as shallow as my florid thoughts,
washed away by the garden sprinkler.
It was once a loud industrial location,
but now it’s slightly damp: Venusian squid
with brollies promenade in the quiet streets
while humans pass their time
overpainting all their windows.
Beyond the peripheral
lies knowledge, buffed and polished,
and it’s my weakness to glimpse
a future where I might find
the decimal point of truth.
In those days of unrelenting sorrow,
the waning sun
mistook itself for the moon,
everything was shaded by
the interstellar fleet,
the conquerors of our world,
and those who once were worshipped
were no longer.
The invaders led the brightest luminaries
to a land beyond the ancient seas,
left us all behind with wishful dreams
of joining them.
You want this and you imagine that.
Here, I’ve packed your longings and desires
—they are donuts, some with filling and icing—
in a travel bag.
go to the temple on the western shore
of the Isvénia Ocean,
watch the sun as it drowns
and boils the waves.
There’s a tea bag for the beach as well.
if bus tickets were horses
I left Dariela, a formal goodbye,
and took the bus,
but in my mind I was flowing in a river
an inhospitable land
irreversibly to the sea.
I reached the temple, queued to
enter the mirrored nave where pilgrims
could find their dreams
reflecting in infinity.
In a waking vision,
I discerned a bee’s mosaic
honeycombed through the eyes of strangers
with their crowded unattainable illusions.
Craved by some, I saw glittering, jewelled inventions;
for others, their own reflections
waiting to be found and loved;
an occasional takeaway with donuts
and low-cal soft drink;
a soft warm darkness—
the unreachable rest at the end of their paths;
and in the distance, eternity,
everchanging, mythically real.
In my personal kaleidoscopic center,
a kitchen shelf,
hexagonal rows of jars,
each labelled with a date,
and every one of them
filled with a summer Sunday
from when the world felt right.
All a little implausible,
the tide was turning on the shore,
to carry me home to Dariela.
It’s easy to confuse the squid with the SQUID. One is often served in Italian restaurants while the other detects minute magnetic fields through quantum state changes in a superconductor: it’s usually not listed on menus and rarely comes with garlic.
the tide (detail above)