Happy Birthday Syd.
My tomorrow is amazing.
Martha’s will serve diners atop rosemary pine needles aligned swathing each in cocoons of cinnamon and nutmeg
Bred (bread) nesting atop four legs
Grounded in this woman’s womb of developing flavours
And tempts the taste buds’ dally o’er allsorts place settings.
Hushed lovers’ dialogue whispers to conceal an excited bundle’s joyous gesticulations towards kitchen doors Swinging of Great Expectations.
With cutlery’s function the sole constant,
The delicacies vary as à la carte submits to my winds of whim.
Man’s nakedness not hindering my navigation of His Eden’s designs my journeys rest at the brim of robust lips.
Lips praying their hope for Good graces at South Africa’s Cape
As penguins leap from the mistaken pohutukawa confluence of seas
Speaking to nourish the depleted Tigris and Euphrates streams
Feeding lush blankets of the Crescent’s fertile banks.
My eyes gaze North, following Freedom’s Star
Coming to rest on the rigged back of the crocodile Nile
Flowing between geometrical arrangements of clay hardened with the sun’s labour.
History’s scales will tip to a single grain of amber,
The sap’s sweet preservation held in the
Bonita ugly Sun rays of the fibrous mutation: Ecuador’s banana.
Fingers dance on looms weaving alpaca’s hide into cloaks of protection,
My path leads across the Incan trail,
The blood of Chile’s plum stains the stones of Cusco
Cornerstones of civilizations pristine as Grecian waters.
My lens will capture the exact moment my mother’s passionate desire rushes to meet these calm blues
Creating a capillary network of double-decker buses choking the ankles of Big Ben’s toll.
Boarding a rickshaw my feet alit in the streets of Mumbai
And recall a child peddling his trike aspiring to be the astronauts’ blemish on the Great Chinese backbone
Each vertebrate erect to assure my balance at Niagara’s fall.
Your palates will be curious at spiralling cupcake domes of Saint Petersburg’s church
Their conical framework marking the burnt tar esses of an El Camino Autobahn track
Racing to the stillness of an oasis mirage.
I will be disoriented in the Gobi as I stumble across the Sahara,
My lover’s pressure arouses to obscure the Babel of Iraqi dates
Our ears attune to the mourning dove’s coo ensconcing green olive’s peace in Gaza.
A polar drifting on home from its Antarctic berg leads leaden tracing of each impression.
My pencil borrows the subsiding ripples for the nook’s walls,
Holding memories in masons of preserves
Fig, formed as the wise cicada mates to the patter of showers cleansing juniper’s lavender Port-
Land second lining to jazz notes’ rise from the succulent peaches’ broil.