Or her mine.

Or her mine.

My gosh but I miss her.

Just saying.

It is the wind

Blown from the Southland

It is cold at heart

Bitter with the chill

Of ice flows

Staggering through

The tee tops

An old drunk

Pulling at the clouds

Dragging a branch

Against the window

A reckless rhythm

Played in real time

Beating erratically

With little thought

Of syncopation

Sand and salt eats

At the wooden frames

Every pane a rattle away

From collapse

Blow me down

With a huff n puff

Build a newspaper airplane

Watch it fly

But do not cry

As it is whisked

By an eddy

Into a whirlwind

Carried to the nearest star

Deposited in Kansas

Without shoes

It is summer there

But don’t go chasing

Rainbows

Without a safety net

Use it for catching butterflies

Release them

In the garden

When the sun shines

It will be a windfall

A captive to winter

Recall a theme

From a beggar’s opera

Sing for your supper

Wrap up like Oliver

And ask for more

It is the least we can expect

From Australia fair.