Late March, bye-line
You find yourself falling
giving in to the last fracture
the final tease of green hairline
a grass pretence for another year
Lying among the washed-out leaves
Eye to eye with the levelled-out day
Rolling over for the smack of sky
that shadow vending sun solicits with hope
the callous of dry ground veined to break
wan from summer’s north fanning whisper
Turn the other cheek the pollens reaching out
A temporal splay boneless hand palm down
Birds search for the inlay season tenets
all faiths looking for the redemptive change
humming gains over a horizon of chords
songs waiting for the sudden clasp in eyes, open
The 100 Celebrating Flying Islands’ Books 100th pocket poetry collection,
Flying Island Books Markwell via Bulahdelah, 2025
James Walton Poetry 