Some choice isn’t it,
one between, allegedly,
complete and utter
freedom - and me;
that is me the ageing, overweight
and currently avoiding spraying
Block Eight poet-orchardist
who believes it might rain.
Out of an azure sky?
Two tropical cyclones perched
precariously on the West Coast
are 3000 km shy of the orchard
so it isn’t going to rain today,
not immediately – but there is
a poem waiting to be written;
so why chose me? Honestly?
If we knew the answer we’d
free this embolism blocking
love’s arteries and I wouldn’t
need to write a bloody poem...
© 24 December 2008, I. D. Carswell
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