As all the northern poets pin fall to page,
you are playing with colour again. Your client
squirts gold onto butcher’s paper like Jackson Pollock
and the wisteria tresses dangle from rotten
fence palings and timber eaves. You too
like to flirt with refraction smearing
rainbow across your eyes, while the
wattle shakes her ringlets across the motorways.
His father posts online. Four years since
L’s death date, but he never noticed springtime
when there was a goon bag behind the Ajax
and Smirnoff behind the curdled milk. You are done
with half formed motherless men grasping
at shadows and fainting in the sun so
you ignore the hashtag and make
vases out of cleanskins,
slipping lavender into wine bottles,
twisting scent into song.
Word upon Word 