My Poem Speaks,
When I taste the yoke of my soul.
The quest to taste the yoke and grasp the poetry,
Here in W.A, north of Perth,
As far as Kalbarrie,
The land bent over millions of years,
By the forces of nature and,
the collision of plates,
rivalled, only by two neutron stars.
I am a tiny spark,
in this land,
And a blink of an eye,
travelling back to a memory landscape.
Like a puppet, the sun drives me,
down the red throat of the coastline,
girded by the foaming white lace,
of the bright blue sea,
and the cliffs deep red skirt, ripple along.
It's a good feeling,
not quite being in control,
not knowing where this road will take me.
Intoxicated with bright sunlight,
I want to seize armfuls of sky, sea and land,
and wrap myself in them,
coveting their contentment,
in just being.
I want to snatch the gems of knowing,
huddled under shrub and grass.
I want to cradle the grey casuarina,
its ancient crooked trunk and,
twisting branches,
brittle arms,
turning back to earth's crusty skin,
sandpaper,
from where they came.
tortured, intelligent,
subtle remnants.
I want to learn the secrets whispered,
between plant and soil.
How plants inner wisdom,
can unlock phosphate,
retard growth,
with limited nutrients,
for their gain.
And learn the symbiotic relations,
of fire and Hakea.
And ask the hairy snap jawed,
flesh eating Utricularia,
what addiction it has to the taste of,
flying and crawling creatures.
And muse, the trickster Spider Orchid,
whose fraudulent currency of scent,
deceives the love crazed wasp,
seeking pleasure in its chambers,
unwitting exchanging pollen for nothing but a joke.
A joke I cannot see, so frail my wisdom.
I am in awe and breathless.
Where am I in this complex web?
No matter it is not for me to know.
But I serve my purpose,
to taste the yoke,
to write the poem.
For all my hubris I am a pawn.
Another trick performed.
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