It was not mine, the summer sprawled on the edge of a swimming pool, in men’s eyes, beautiful.
Autumn came richer, thicker, and I drove away to the foothills of Mt Macedon
beyond the formal plantings to the wild bush, to the soft rain and the chill, sad colours
and I found them gathered, the gold tops the blue cups, the fruits of light having worked its way down, then up.
I ate the earth, and after my hair stiff with blood from leeches locked to my scalp,
a small pink crotcheted pig hanging from the rear view mirror spoke out of nothing speech
[it was a breathtaking on the road to enlightenment on a gestureless bluebacked night]
out of the waves of darkness a tale of utterly believable failure and the night is still, is beautiful, is flying