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Salmon Poetry

He was

Jo Pitkin

a windmill, 
endlessly moving, yet fixed                                                                                        

He was a cobra
fangs millimetres from a wrist

He was a crystal decanter, 
flung across a room

He was a rain-filled tent 
in a monsoon                                                                                                            

He was the dragonfly 
walking on a sun-baked back                                                                                
He was a cored apple 
filled with dagga for a cooling smoke     

He was the fishing knife, 
held against a madalla’s throat                                                                            
He was an orange 
rolled to a rogue elephant                                                                          

He was the jacaranda drum, 
played in an empty riverbed                                                                                                
He was a chameleon, 
uncertain whether red or green                                                                                         
                                                                                                 
He was a motorbike, 
swivelling three sixties in a storm           

He was a swimming pool
made from a drought-stricken furrow                                                                       

He was the day after 
tomorrow.


Copyright © Afric McGlinchey 2012

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