Spiky camel hump, buried in sand.

Alien artichoke, Martian’s lunch.

I’m told to admire your

‘architectural qualities’.  As if

we build houses of needles,

like one of those three little pigs

gone crazy, his brain curling,

dizzy, to match pale gimlet tail.

What huffing

fire-mouthed wolf-dragon

could blow you down?

Crooked eyes only, crave cacti.


Yet, every few years, you explode

into a neon gown of Brazilian hues

pulsating, pink or gold, as at Mardi Gras.

When poor become princes,

and thin desert blooms.


P.S. Cottier

Just published in The Mozzie, Queensland