Willow dreams
turned to Ashes
On patches of
packed earth
Down under
turned to Ashes
On patches of
packed earth
Down under
While hope pitched up
On treacherous sands
With fiery wingtips
In the ceasefire acts
of a Bondi Bond,
who goes by another
name, that on most days
prompts virtual outrage
and random searches
(That’s what’s in a name,
Ye old rhetorical Bill,
the gulf between an ex-pat
And an immigrant
that no small boat can cross.
if you really must know)
And yet, as pretend lines
are crossed on this spinning
Orange, my papers change
colour though mine remains
the same, for
I never thought
I had a certain hue,
until sterile square boxes
on White paper ticked me
into one to know my place
Home is a place where
palm leaves fan paddy fields
Where singing Santas come
With pasty white face masks
and skinny brown arms
Where festive season is
every month with different
colours that can
always bleed to Red if
not handled with care
Home is where the return
ticket takes you now,
Where the inbound flight
moved you in time lapse,
Into the EU queue,
and then,
out again
Home is where you
buy houses and fill
them with trinkets
and people to make
them homes, leaving
just enough jostling
space on a dusty
garage shelf
for other hats
you once wore
Better than the crown
for that carpenter’s Son
who wore a darker shade
of pale than faith allows
for some
Did he build things of Great
Beauty with his father’s craft?
Or is Faith all that he crafted,
wrapped, of all things,
In Hope
Faith is whatever it means
to those who have it
And while it elevates some
Into divine grace
I choose to have it in
Mankind, with the will
to change worlds before
they too fit into urns
Ashes to Ashes
Seasons greetings
one and all
