to John Tranter
‘I had read in books that art is not easy’
that words hide themselves in dark corners
no-one warned of the colourful spires
milking evaporated carnations
the emeralds phone brightly in’s Brooke
painted with Betty Windsor and Bert Newton
a chiaroscuro pear glowing with charisma
drifting through intelligent mist
in search of speed turned red in the night
do electric sheep dream of silver marigolds
reflecting by quiet reflections
ever so ever so ever.
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