Bottlebrush, brush it all away

The Christmas of tomorrow, the birthday of the sea

Brush it all away for me.


Tucked behind the gully 

Morning yolks, no whites, please

Chickens don’t lay pears

Blooming corner shop on the crescent

Sully and I tuck them into pockets

Dine between twigs and gale

Lip gloss, sticky pear but sweet organs

Sew the core to the dampened soil

The calendar flips to frosty

Wattle is robbed of its locks 

Mama tucks us in the duvet

No pears in snowfall, anyway 

Ranch restaurant closed for the season

Calendar commits autumn treason.


Banksia, bring it all back 

The easter of yesterday, Mother's Day of flora

Bring me back my apricot aura.