by GLENN MCPHERSON
Three lousy pumpkins off three vines, for winter.
Smoke won’t make up its mind. This morning
We found a waterhole no-one has drowned
In yet. There was a flat stone that the poor-man
Who sleeps rough, further back, can’t see.
All the birds frowned in their own way
At having to wait, like me, on a warmer
Day to strip and give it a try.
What time will the children get back?
Already the first cricket begins, so quietly, in the letter box.
Soon, the den they made will be handed over
To the bad dialogue of small coals.
Let’s wait for them in the dark until we’re cold!