It started with the morning rain...

I wake up drained,
From a drizzly dream.
The fan turns,
My knees ache.
It is hereditary.
Black patches,
I owe to clime.
Time passes,
I see myself,
Full-breasted,
Leaning to pluck fruit
In an art gallery.

A set of wet pliers,
On the sill.
Where I left them,
Two days ago.
Things unseen within,
Are manifold desirable.
Yet, when recovered,
Mires in to routine mundane.

To and fro the panes creak,
Rust-burnt, yet strong,
They have seen me,
Grow up alone.
My solitary world,
Fantastic guests at every stage,
As appropriate to mood and age.
Some distant, ethereal,
Some mere below.
My still life untouched,
by Blue Mountains.
The ecstasy,the sheer view,
The trickly twinkle of morning dew,
Shrieks and garbles
From tinted throats
Daily invoke
Our divine orb
Of ginger hue.



Those hills,
They are not mine,
Jealous as they roam,
Higher up the country.

I will never visit them,
For, childish visions,
I desire to retain.

A feeling remembered,
Of sunrise repast,
Unclear, but telling.
The smoke and the smells,
The caves and the spells,
Of an undiscovered tribe.
Their dwellings clean,
Chequered-light lazy woods
Dotted in smooth gray stone seats.

When I return,
`A fantastic hoax',
My hills, a colony may house,
Of urban employees.
Or worse,
its scrub may leave it Dark Green,
And unfit for dawn mist dreams.