Hassock for the Willing

by James Walton (follow)

This diocese of leaves wants
me on my knees, and I’ll go down gladly
only to hear the song of the banksia,
those crotchet cones of impossible notes
scrawled by cleft hills
a flambeau that waves on the willing.

Somewhere,

the lyre bird’s doing the mobile phone ring
thing again, and when I try to answer
the flaky language is older than Latin,
phonetics that tingle turning pages
of stepping stones in whistled taunts
cross over melodies branding, all places.

I like this Article - 3

Share: email  facebook  twitter

ID: 38574