Friday, February 06, 2015


The sun warms my bones to honey
sweet beneath my skin.

I dance to the music of the wind
fragrant with ryegrass and the scent of trees -

I dance in celebration at the closure
of ancient wounds.


The challenge for the poetry class
is to write about this packet of sugar,
but what can I say?

It's an example of crass American marketing
in its baby blue and white striped paper
with a 50s style American woman smiling
from the cover - very 'mom and apple pie'
like June Lockhart in Lassie

It doesn't belong here, on my colonial island.
It doesn't sing - like wind through the wires
at Windwhistle, doesn't stir and lurk the shorelines
like the two oceans that circle us
endless and tireless, waiting to engulf.

It's too much sweetness - like a buttercup
full of raindrops, from which fairies drink.