weeks
now, a homestead
with a very long
driveway
autumn,
her leaves
a single
sheep, there
sideways
in bones, there
in the corner
of a paddock
“don’t look”
she said.

lachlan
lucas, together
wrapped
in boyhood
in a heap
of compost building
tunnels
in tiny
gum boots
adventuring
down towards
a gypsy caravan,
a shepherd’s
hut, arena
garden in squares
growing rhubarb
and roses
the magnolias
confused, blooming
and some things
are lying down
after summer
finished
and tired

the luminaries
buttonholes
rains
doo-hawg’s
the name
of a border collie
and there are four
cats:

minnie
snuffy
ouchie cat
and mr. pants

quiet weekends
head cold baking
marshmallows
planting
bulbs weeding
the artichokes,
the nasturtiums

sitting outside
on steps, coloured
pencils writing
a letter
to nathan john
to new hampshire
that months later
got sent back

little chaos
reoccurrence
house on fire
(still and still)

low and low
i do what i want
no hair, only
a few small
centimeters
left, those blues
they got to me
and anyways now
i’m a real
peach

shades of green
and florals-
wallpaper,
pink wine
rose apples
how they call dinner
“tea”, discovering
the inside
patterns the
perfume
of feijoas