Waking early, the new pills making
Me dance with an insipid insomnia,
Endless tango towards the detrude dawn.
I take the car to the sodden back roads,
Sullenly beautiful in the bare bark browns
Of the nascent Spring.
On a dirt farm road in Walkern I stop,
Mark time to Phil Woods, the cool
Alto urgency pushing the fragile light
Morning mist kisses the tree line and
Is gone, fickle, as elusive as love.
Smoking my last I see the colours bleed
The cold, a sudden light breeze gives motion
To the landscape and I see them, five or six,
Beyond the pines, like stone they obsever the
Observer then vanish into cover.
Just occasionally, it’s the small things
That give you the most hope.