Outside the wire that half-defines our garden,
sagg and pampas grass, lured by the same sun
I write in, prosper in what seems disorder.
In time the garden will be overrun.
The bees prefer our lavender, and never
mind the way I move among them, bringing water
for lettuces and silverbeet, for herbs
going to seed, while in the bay a motor
drones on about its work for salmon farms.
The local spirit, of which I am a part,
is never quiet. Birds and insects flit
and clamber, sail and crawl through leaves and dirt.
Calendula and cosmos lean their flowers
down where the beds we planted and protect
still offer up new weeds we do not know
and have to watch to learn of their effect.
An airplane scouts an island, out of sight.
A digger bangs like far-off kitchen pans,
spilling a farmer’s boulders down the paddock.
I sit among the bees and move my hand
across a notebook page of ruled blue lines,
the little government that I can bring
out of the morning’s great unruliness
and may, when all is finished, try to sing.