A limited number of autumns
mulched, or tumbled in a barrel,
spread thin, or just allowed to fall.
The angry man with the blower.
The desperate, toothy rake,
plied like a weapon to hold back
swarming leaves of dragon red.
Carpeting drive and inscribing soil —
the pointed, scarlet letters
of a limited number of autumns.

PS Cottier

leaves and cicada

I belong to the ‘let it fall where it will’ school of gardening, which must frustrate those with gardens that look like they were bought from Ikea and assembled with an Allen key.  There are many introduced species of trees in Canberra, which provide people with the ideal way of expressing their personalities as they battle the leaves.  Or not.

Backyard farms

Corrugations echo with cluck,
the occasional illicit crow,
ear-pecked neighbours pick fights;
shrill voices make 6 a.m. alarms.

Frosted into internal mush,
harder shell of fallen white,
strawberries mimic the avid snails
munching them like Frenchmen.

Orange peel, meat and coffee
strewn on sacred stewing mounds
create decomposition. Disbelief
that she knows so little, cares less.

PS Cottier


Must find accent key…

An old poem this one, and I don’t think it’s been published anywhere before.

In Canberra the bigger backyards tend to be in the innermost suburbs, although many old houses on big blocks are being demolished for units.  So many a chicken scratches within a few kilometres of Parliament House.  (Insert manure joke at will.)

Happy new year, by the way.