Camphor Laurel

New poem for Autumn 2021

Born in the shade of

Camphor Laurel

Resting on one’s

Dusty warmth of the past

The morning of a life

You florid little boy

Waxy glossy green leaves

A wreath upon your pretty head

Crinkled wave of leaf’s edge

Turned thorny crown, turned tan

And scattered like skittles

On the Southerly Buster

The heat is gonna break

The change will burst with cool

Around, surround the house it goes

But that’s got nothing to do with me

It’ll try and get in

But I am safe here

Little Laurel fruit spheres

Gorged and gouged by birds

Split and burst and defecate

With ego and fetish, the id and the surfeit

Chew the fat and waste the day of

A century gone, the ninth and final decade

You fucking psycho. You little weirdo.

That tree is a weed, so maybe I am too

I am too

That’s too much. Don’t be greedy.

Don’t you see it’s all your fault.

You’re too

Magpie fascination: a scritch-a-scratch

Wagtail warble: a begging for scraps

But I don’t need it. That’s for you. 

Don’t worry about me. That’s for you.

Swing about the hips of hopeless her

Her orbital pull

Too big to move or try to escape

Who; me too small, or you too big?

Makes no difference either way

Her trunk is thick and her roots run deep

That was meant for everybody

But you can have it

It’s gone now anyway. The new owners chopped it down

Eat it up / chop it down / make it mine / I think I’ll stay

You shouldn’t have done that.

Think I’ll stay

You can’t say that.

Think I’ll stay

You did this to yourself.

Think I’ll stay

“When I grow up,”

I think I’ll stay

– 2021