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As if it is left to the dark

rain-glossed trees burdened

with bright ripe citrus

and the long-fingered kikuyu which prowls

the weathered board house,

to do something

about the children.

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These fine leaves fallen

from the cabbage trees

bunched into the rusted drum,

yellow-brown-grey and hopefully dry

engulf a weak confused curl

of barely escaping smoke

as leaf filaments glow and smoulder

from just one match.


The dull edge of a dark day

waits with me in cold vigil

awaiting a cremation

of events not grieved

but with time to ruminate out back

by that degrading iron drum


when with sudden flare

an epiphany of fire

bursts brightly through

the crackling discards

melting me into smile.



Getting a handle on this diabetes thing is no joke mate

it’s as slippery as a bloody eel, or a big pot of boiled brisket.


Sure, you can take away those cakes and biscuits and crap

I’d rather have a tin of peaches any day. What? But it’s fruit, man!


I don’t think eating too much of that rabbit food

can do a bloke much good either – don’t know how


the cattle eat all that green stuff and still put on the beef.

Must have a different kind of guts somehow.


Pretty astonishing to be told that spuds and bread get turned

into sugar inside the belly. Find that one hard to swallow, eh!


Give away the fizzies? Yeah, fair enough, they’re just lolly water

but the beer’s a different story, eh – like an uncle who


puts an arm across your shoulders when you’re taking things hard.

He asks no dumb questions. Yeah, the beer’s family, it’s gotta stay.


Hey, if these pills are any good, can’t they take care of it all

and let me get on with normal life? Why pay twice?


I really don’t know about this diabetes fella, who gate crashed

my life and looks like he’ll never leave. Does a bloke’s head in.

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