Alongside, calling through a billowing swell of roses

Sang a blackbird

And I caught his thought and saw his song proposes

This garden holds more tunes than I have ever heard.


And then I caught his eye, gleaming with such intent

To make us understand

His piercing note foretold a coming nightmare urgent

We must care for lives other than our own, as planned.

At last, a drenching sun held the high walled garden
In dappling embrace
Where droney bees toured lavenders
Awash with nectared perfume.

And countless flowers threw themselves up, up towards
The blinding, fiery light
Exuding scents gushing yet dallying
In breathless air as we, enchanted, trod narrow, blissful paths.

Such clingy warmth made the castle garden
Sing with joy
As shiny, black and purple reflectant beetles
Journeyed at pace across aged flags.

A resident troupe of beetle-nabbing Dumpies resplendent
In oily, golden plumage
Confident in their preening beauty, parading
While enraptured lovers absorbed this paradise.

What joy, as shimmering, tumbling nature impacts the senses
In a drowsy garden that
Allows us colours and shapes and scents masking bold endeavour
And, sharing with its engrossed inhabitants, a love of life itself.

After a dreadful Winter, with no Spring, along came this glorious day.
The garden is heavenly and the warmth golden.

Goddammit though


Bitter is the taste

Of grudging praise

When every seething sinew


In the opposite direction.


That flamin’ Aussie


Flailed emotions

Killing off

Our dogs of war

And lays about him,

Buccaneering Aussie.


When all was flamin’ set

To trounce, devour, incinerate

Our dearest Aussie foes

And heap bright flamin’ coals

Upon them.

And wield wild flamin’ rods

Of pure titanium

About their ducking heads.


But then, my fury pricked itself

Upon the savage needles

Of my leery bombast, while

Seeing roaring coals and hissing steel


In recognition of

My own simple-mindedness.


So, well done, Aussie lad

Even though you made me sad

By plucking my frenzy mad

It’s I, not you, that’s mad a tad

So, well done, Aussie lad.





Did your hair wash nicely this morning?
Or was that peroxide melting the bowl?
Were your curlers not shouting a warning?
That where once there was hair, there’s a hole!

Barbara, Barbara,

Swooning near the candelabra

Always suspected she was only

One or two misunderstandings

Away from being accepted

As an Opera

In her own right.


The Barber

Of Seville



At the end of a trill

To enlighten her.


Oh, where to look?


Perhaps the attic

Pursuing this most

Operatically dramatic

Of puzzles.