My Sodden Pillow

by Chris Wallace-Crabbe

Three scorching days almost over as
a wet helicopter drones across
on its highway to some nowhere.

A suite of century heat
is all a bit much
when we haven’t yet hit Christmas

but then, we do at least hear
Nutcracker on a couple of radios
around the house and yes,

that remains pure genius on the hoof.
Speaking of spatial prepositions
there’s a rainbow lorikeet

edging along his comfy branch
three feet above my noggin
and every bit as lairy as usual, except

that his green is courting apricot leaves.
But here’s our cool change
with five wild minutes of rain

miming the end of the world.
Those lurid birds, by the way
do they shriek, squeal,

trill or just loud whatsoever?
They might be needed now, since
our pollies have all gone to sleep,

whatever the party: all haunted
by financial koalas.
Or just by summer’s breadth.

Published on December 16, 2016