All night cutting teeth in a gully of bruising dreams
has me conscious at the cockcrow of Saturday
marooned in a sea of creased white sheets,
my feet stretch further when I know it’s the weekend.
I can hear the warbling of a distant mower
chew its whining cud with the neighbours buffalo,
I can hear the ringing of spoon in china cup
with freshly squeezed bag of tea and saccharin heading my way.
Through window pane
jacaranda fronds renovate
the bedroom wall with
a silhouette like henna.
The day drifts clockwise, pedaling its course,
past my sleepy eyes,
in outside beds half naked flowers bawl like children
in the pushy breeze, and a racket of boisterous poodles play.