A splash of red geranium
in a fissure at Glenelg
eating blackberries and cream
drinking Spanish port
in the late 1970s twilight
riding a bike around and around
a hills hoist in the rain
there’s those geraniums
again or sitting in St Peters
listening to the lion’s roar at the zoo
and the chk, chk, chk, bwwrrrr
of the sprinkler as the old
sulphur crested cocky next door
says on the hour ‘the score is four for 264’
through blowfly summer
the fruit fly man
says sure is hot
sure is