GARDEN POME

toxic orange cloud is INCHES above me 

and 

the

exotic plants lurk lurid their

colours

gone

hangover

weird.

birds sing like when i was a boy and we moved house.

the lights coming in low and sideways.

the apple tree wrapped in thick vines

is

a

benevolent

monster

and is sprouting blooming horns.

the grass i grew long

for the grubs for the birds

and

for 

the tiny bears and the baby armadillos.

biodiversity

creeps

round

the

old

wooden

furniture

no one wanted to sit on any more.

the toxic cloud is heading down river.

heading east.

the

cigarette burning

in

my

fingers

is a pure a joy as i think i’ll ever find.

i tap the ash in an empty beer bottle

staring into the depthless blue till 

i can only see

floaters sparkling and drifting

over

my delicate eyes;

the

bright dots of another universe.