Fruit

My mind is Port St Johns,

with feathered clouds on a morning sky,

sub-tropical tall tree ideas

standing still,

and above all ravens turn

dark feathered, hard birds: no shit.

Their full-throated high rasps

turn the morning

and my mind is in their distant eyes

a-watching.

Now they are down

hopping, or stiff-legged stalking

on the green, like thoughts in fruit,

never as imagined ‒

bits of bread in pincer bills,

and all the other things they eat.

 - Brian Walter