Like a windup toy it sidles the porch
in an awkward jete,
so black it’s purple as wet shiny aggregate.
The voice older than memory
a surviving ayr a timepiece of yo yo
sometimes stretched out walking the dog,
or a sharpie up and down
back into an unread palm.
A mini Godzilla head side jerk
the beady summation of reflected pride,
before the kamikaze barking fall of wattle bird
spins it around into parthian defence.
A taut bow snap of secateur beak;
recoil iteration drops down
in old string the elongated drawl,
an adagio for blunted adze beyond
the sighs of retribution and penance.
James Walton Poetry 