trout

Morning

The sun is sick of swallowing sea-water:
His horses storm the shore, snorting
Light. Stars melt in the sky’s smelter.
Diana hot-foots it into the forest.

My candle pales as dawn breaks
Down the door. Let’s get up
Phyllis, and visit
Our garden: is it sprinkled

With the flowers that cover your face?

17.1.1985, Pacific Street, Dunedin