PS Cottier

Mango

Skinned sun bleeds thickest honey,
flesh cubed into soft armadillos.
You whisper of summer, twin ears,
lure us like that other yellow,
the smiling curve of beach.
Lie in a hammock —
canvas forming cocoon —
and eat a mango;
where fruit ends and we start
is hard to say. Peel away
accretions of words and worries —
be stroked by gold to dream.

P.S. Cottier

Hard to believe that a couple of weeks ago I was warm. Now I’m in Canberra and freezing. It’ll be a balmy -2 overnight, and -4 is predicted for later in the week. This usually brings on questions of Why? Why here? Why not on the coast? (I know the answer was State politics and fear of invasion, but the mind still boggles like a most boggly thing.)

At the moment, Kazakhstan leads Australia in the Olympics medal tally. Though, to look on the bright side, there is no history of Australians mumbling ‘Bloody Kazakhs’, nor any great sporting traditions linking the two countries…And didn’t New Zealand do well in the hockey last night against Australia? I believe the Russian umpire was called Kakapovic, or something like that.

Amazing how idiotic sporting badinage cheers one up! Although the total fixation of local media coverage on Australians and only Australians at the Olympics is already beginning to pall. I’ve absolutely no hope of seeing the Kazakhs, for example, unless they’re up against a ‘plucky’ Aussie.

I am in a world of discomfort as I adjust to the gym, but I can’t stand people who whinge about voluntarily inflicted pain. So I decided to post a poem about my favourite fruit instead.

I wonder if there are poems about vegetable or fruity love published by anyone else? Click this feather and you will be transported to New Zealand, and will most surely find out.