Sunday, 1 April 2018

Driving to Stanthorpe

We set off on the journey, suitably groomed,
clothed, and suitcased for a week at Grandma’s.
Days filled with fresh air, tea and shortbread loomed.
We breathed a mixture of anticipation and resignation.

The potholes in the road were filled with water
that captured fragments of the overhead sky
in portions larger than if they were filled with mortar;
Bringing the sky down so it was over us and under us

Feeling eerie, we drove between two skies expecting the universe
to fissure any minute from our unnatural action,
But the skies remained calm, clouds interspersed,
puffed and pompous like French pastries.

Empyrean dainties plump with heavenly manna,
watery intent dripping from their brows.
The universe split, dumping again its wet hosanna
with distemper and petulance upon us.

Arriving at the matriarchal residence
as we dismounted from our muddied sedan
the cerulean skies belied the sullied evidence;
We looked like travelers venturing from a previous epoch.


March 2018

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