Its only a short flight for a curious crow

from country’s carrion to the city’s illusion.

The stars are hidden, light kills the night.

Molly and I come down the mountain

to unnatural night noises of drunken

omnivores, loud in their ignorance

of water vegetation and blood.

In the metallic carbon scented morning

the city cafes and bookshops fill with

the swelling crowd of Babylon.

The hiss of steam, the froth of busy ideas,

warmth and noise of shared ambitions.

The odd poet sitting alone, tuning inspiration.

My blue heeler looks for yappers under

the cafe tables, fed on cereal bits

as dry as politicians promises.

We pass girls chatting mysteriously

about last nights indiscretions.

There is poetry in their laughter, for

the flowers of ambition can be picked twice.

The canes of last years full summer
sacrificed for the next urgent spring
lie like a huge tangled pile of ideas
each with its own coiled spring of prejudice.

The flame shows its ambition early
pretty as candlelight, transparent as lust,
licking along it’s consuming path.
The willing gas sighs and crackles
like passion feeding on itself
devouring the source of inspiration

Standing in the vines when the world

was up early, cut out of painted steel

bird calls rising up out of the quiet earth,

no wind to signify anything over the hill.

 

Vine roots deep enough to search the soil

minerals and sweetness to feed the grape.

Leaves holding the sunshine in long green rows

ripening the fruit for the autumn harvest.

 

Surviving frost, drought, mildew and wind

the verraison attracts the gathering birds

and soon the cheerful pickers punctuating

the rows,”this bunch is too good to crush”.

 

The grape sacrifices itself for mens revels,

we discard our cares and wear the mantles

of kings and clowns and judges, in company

with brotyhers and sisters and fellow travellers.