Friday, 15 December 2017

wise little prophets:

The tree expects bananas,
the bulge at the crown

proudly born as any wife in her
yellow chiffon, maternity gown.

I didn’t but there they hang,
a quartet of proofs
that the climate has changed.

This is Melbourne
tropical fruit does not grow
this far below the imaginary line

yet they are there still,
each a yellow smile,
a grin at man;

as the tongue-shaped
banana leaves whisper,

“I’ll be here long after
you’ve been and gone mister.”

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