This diocese of leaves wants
me on my knees, and Iíll 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.
the lyre birdís 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.