Pareidolia of the natural world
Away from nature, the phone
charger's emaciated tail
makes you jolt in the coffee shop.
Hand soap squealing like a frightened
puppy offers no comfort. Nighties
of jellyfish masquerading as lampshades
almost bring you to fainting. A bat
skeleton in a manhole cover. Bush
baby sunglasses. A vixen’s mane
in the hairdresser. You seek relief
in nature documentary reruns –
Attenborough’s voice as soothing
as lemsip. The local zoo moves
your body like a planchette on a Ouija
board, but it might be too much.
Once, you saw your father playing
crocodile outside your room
as your doe-eyed mother wept.
Depression as Cloudburst
Clouds convulse into rain
as you wring the wet tea towel.
The sky at the end of your bed
trembles as you play Russian
roulette with its offspring.
Your mind is a fruit machine
returning coins like hail.
You never were one
for conventional weather.
Rabbit Skull
Strip the hill. Strip away the soil,
the weather bearing its judgement,
the solitary tree playing scarecrow
with its skeleton, the bitter birds,
the sunlight, the fungi extending
its empire. Strip it all. Whatever
is left is the pottery of damaged gods
doubled up as innocence, as poetry.
Flight of the dragonfly 