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.