Wattlebirds and honeyeaters are crazed
With bottlebrush madness in the evening breeze
And after-dinner warmth and light and height
Of multidimensional carpet flung and warped
Through pools of space and archipelagos of air
Against blue or green or grey-green, red and cream
Against black and grey hallucinogenic high-relief
Where soon the socialist bees will come to collect
And get dragged dying by totalitarian ants
For now the new-born specks of flight are nectar-drunk
And far too small to achieve the freight of punctuation
As even the tiniest of full stops, let alone inverted commas
