Bona Vista

Suburb poplar,
tremble you so

Perchance you know
the wind’s way,

The day’s colour 
at night

You whisper,
your life.


The last day of May
I stood by the floodway,
the green expanse
flooded with sun.

By my ankles
the wind trembled grass
and behind, birds chirped
songs I did not know.

Closing my eyes,
I imagined flowers
blooming yellow in months
still to break

And I beckoned 
the butterfly of my mind
to find a petal
on which I could rest:

I sensed it flutter 
—closer then away—
between colours
as between dreams.

When it vanished
into the blueness of sky,
I blinked a breath
and steadied my heart.