Morning

The yellow chair and the red
sit at the pine table on the verandah
waiting for tea.

The voice of that crow
I can’t kill
saws through the chairs’ legs.

Green hills sit hands in laps


smoke coming from their nostrils.
Here come the guinea fowl
last to roost and first to rise —
a flock of nuns ringing their tiny bells.

An island floats in the dam
a burnt meringue in a green jelly.
One wild duck drags its silver victory flag
around and around the dam
while the blond boy sleeps on
in this old wooden house
sailing through the breathless morning.

 

 

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