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I did not mean to become a poet. The dream of emerging as the next Great American Novelist tasted so sweet in my imagination.  >

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Report from Blue Mountains

David Brooks

Poetry by David Brooks

1
My Echium, exotic that it is,
has collapsed under the weight of its own blossoming.
This afternoon, while I tried to string it,
the sun slipped behind a bank of cloud
and the first fat drops of a heavy shower commenced.
As I climbed the steps to the back verandah, the dog following,
I saw a tiny beetle on the handrail
hesitate and turn, as if deciding to make for home.
The rain, as I sat in the doorway, thundered on the roof, like wonder,
halting us all.


2
It is spring in the mountains, uncertain spring.
One day it hails, and the temperature drops,
the next it is windy and thirty degrees.
Plants bolt upwards and then stop, as if thinking they have come too far.
The grass is thick and wild, full of dandelions, scotch thistle, rogue poppies, dock.
This morning I found myself longing for a country
where no-one understands me.
Tonight a large moth has been keeping me company,
dusting my shoulders with its yellow wings.



©David Brooks

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