in Daveylands, Poems


in the new anti-kraak universe you play squatter
upside-down in your brain at parties you proffer

slim handshakes, some modest attempts at dutch
& a determination to stand there all day like a boer

in a landscape where he is indigenous – the white
light shining from his invisibly big head; yet you

fall under the dim star of sleep (where eerie canals
watch you breathe & you stagger from one station

to another – drugged by sundown, watching the big
orange heat ball swinging royally low over the meer

a cardboard world where settlers merrily invade each
other after dinner … you lose a continent over coffee

or else blood-red wijn, a casualty of summer time
where the day & the air & the land are belong to us

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  1. a little ‘white’ whinge (‘wijn’):-

    hello mr p,

    i wonder how 2 of yr italicised ‘w’s have come to loose their left ear serifs. while reading the poem these words fell somewhat silent.

    love from thankfully wet daylesford,
    the garden

  2. Thanks for that, Patrick. I will get onto the font people IMMEDIATELY.