Lank grass in hanks like unbleached hemp
congests the yard, unmown, unkempt,
where startled primrose butterflies flee
squawking, stalking silhouettes.
From the long-dead mango tree
crows berate cats, black and grey,
that pause in their pursuit of petalled
wings, slink sullenly away.
The plumed heap scorn upon all pelts,
and in particular on cats;
from the back porch, sipping water,
I survey the pecking order.
Marshalling chaotic thoughts
that flit before my mind’s dazed eye
beneath a wry, sardonic sun
and August’s dusty winter sky,
I realise I am all of them –
the crows, the cats, the butterflies –
disoriented, scornful, sly;
fragmented: all of them, and none –