Under the bellowing tree
Under the bellowing tree she called us.
Dust motes dancing with dandelion pappus.
A muddle of sun cream, bug-sting and lust.
Under the billowing tree she caught us.
I saw the kingfish there:
a little hanged Mary
cauterised, the colour of iodine,
taking the air.
With limbs made to lumber and swing,
we strung up a tyre
and wingless, let our bodies scream
through unseen wires.
Swinging across the stream,
doll with halo,
removed from a bag; fluttering
fantoccino.
I saw her
Lost her
Caught her
air
caught her
lost her.
Swinging across the stream,
held by puppet strings,
a spring offering of
pulling and drawing.
We hunted her among the stones,
the tree itself,
for the conferral of an eternal fee
bereft of wealth.
