Heretical Beauty

No one in their right mind while wandering

lonely as a cloud would proclaim they had spied

a host of scrawny weeds upon the hillside

and break into a jig. Yet weeds have their worshipers.

You can scour the internet and dig up poems,

odes to weeds, panegyrics. They are the bones

of the earth. Wordsworth got in first, that’s all.

But his daffy little poem is not the last word.

The weeds will rise up, their heretical, skewed beauty,

tough as barbed-wire, will find its bards.

Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow

It had been bugging me for months so I took a clipping down to the Garden Centre.

What’s it called? I asked. What’s its botanical name?

I didn’t much like the sound of it.

So I asked its common name.

Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, the man said.

I very much liked the sound of that.

so I went home and dubbed it with my royal ruler.

Henceforth you shall be known as Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, I announced with a clipped classy accent.

It sounded like a song.

Like something from ‘Revolver’.

Ghost Galahs

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I want to photograph the galahs

clowning on the bare limbs

of the Norfolk pines

but the buggers won’t keep still

 

racing around like particles

inside a Hadron Collider.

Just as you line up a couple

They’d be elsewhere.

 

All I needed was a panoramic shot

But then they’d be off

Across the river, raucous as a footy crowd..

Better off snapping flowers,

blossoms.