Search optimisation is the bronzewing’s nemesis
or indifference if it’s your attention it wants,
though it’s not; link farming from Russian capitalists
to offset the tender feelings aroused by recently
planted olive tree saplings wilting with the frost,
or the discovery of a thriving new Jam tree sapling –
disturbed ground liberating – and musing over
the beautiful-simple design of the semi-circle arc
of the faucet on the eastern roofcatch rainwater
tank. But content gets plucked out of your work
and days, as fetid smoke falls down to your semi-
breved locality on the long, drawn-out hillside:
a burning-off – wild oats poisoned up on the demi-
peak, a neighbours’ cocktail you already wear
on your clothes. Retreating indoors, screen-saved.
Inverse proportions create a market where there
is no market existing – sucking the well dry
or spoiling it so no others can drink safely,
deeply. And on the flipside is the desire
for strangers from otherworlds to be settled only
where settling is under a vice-like grip. These pryings
and leverings, these attempts – as the burners
of the fouled organics perceive it – to get under
their skin, change its colour as though they’re
changing the texture of the crust. On the surface
a hovering kite twists its microscopic vision –
bronzewing, watch out!
