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.”