Shall I streak around the village?
Make a cake of river silt
and decorate it
with withered mountain daisies?
I could pretend to be jolly,
make a tiny umbrella
out of newspaper
to balance on the rim
of my coffee cup
The one covered nose to tail
with fish
like an Escher print
It’s blustery and wet outside,
no good for a bike ride
The tussock and matagouri
are manic on the dance floor,
all upper-body movement
Still grounded,
they belong
Walnut shells for kindling,
it’s safe and warm inside
but somehow hollow
like the pumpkin
roasting in the oven,
seeds and stringy bits
scooped out
to make room for
something
that cannot be found in the cupboard,
Mother Hubbard.
That's about the size of it 