I retreat to my back porch
on a moondog misty night.
from a cigarette, unfettered
by authoritarian longevitists.
My feet cool on the damp deck
under the illunarmated night.
A company of arachnids,
crickets and moreporks
play to the Southern Cross.
There is a rain-soaked printer
waiting for just the write moment
for its penultimate journey to the shed,
the recycling bin is semi empty;
its contents could never reveal
their story to archaeologists
who deal with dirt and the dead,
beer cans and wine bottles all still
from the jam with Ian and Andy,
a plastic laundry bottle -
cheaper than its cardboard refill,
all tastefully disorganised.
The barbecue doubles as a plantstand
and the rubbish bin remains
in practical proximity
to the back door.
A spicy stack of firewood
lends scent to my thoughts
as I entice words
to compost the detritus of my day.