/ /

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