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.

winter strawberries
nipples in snow
limacine dreams

P.S. Cottier

I was tossing up whether to have an image of a slug or a strawberry. Looks like I opted for perky and nice with this Deborah Griscom Passmore painting of a type of strawberry called Parker Earle. Planted in the glorious field we call Public Domain.

Don’t think about that wee poem too much, or rather unpleasant images may occur. By the way, there is no shame in having to look up the word ‘limacine’, which is not a kind of expensive car. I trolled around for ages before I found ‘as ovine is to sheep, X is to slug’. And the word is perfect, I think.

Being a poet is a tough job, but someone has to do it.

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