70. my singing is like crying, my song is like shouting
my singing is like crying, my song is like shouting, picture a sunlit landscape, where grass is shocked into shouting & the colours are shocking, everything is stretched suddenly like a mouth & throat into a thin high note in the light, into a short short shout, heated eucalyptus turn up the colour with glee, native flowers are receiving hours of glow, the song somersaults in the throaty calls of magpies, blankets of crunchy field frost lift, the volume is switched up for the morning programme, in the language of the brush-tipped-ring-tail possum, a high fleecy cloud scampers across the sky, the crisp sharp day hollers in my scarf |
