Kite

The hills roll like eggs
with calcium texture

latticed in spiky monoculture
on cabbage-moth time

terracotta nests,
and territories, more
than we know.

Two stroke chopper drone,
bird-strike and rhythm and blues,

lichen-crusty hawthorn
and flat, crawling conifers,
ever-green and bloomless.

Library thoughts –
chattering reflections –

settling now
like brown sugar in porridge

following a bee

down from the warm, drenched laurels
veined and expecting, themselves.

She sent up flares
near the end

that burst like dandelion clocks
but I saw her
too late.

It’s all moving today
as fast as the long pine shadow

it’s all blinding
like a welder’s arc.

Ticking like a hi-hat
and chewing on arithmetic

a school kid
who doesn’t understand

eye-lid droop
in leaf litter tissue

and brightness
such brightness

over the coriander knell
sack cloth races

a ponder away
of garment stained treasure

and chocolate cake
fresh for a favourite
grand son.