at a quarter past the rising sun,
it seemed as though time stood still,
pinned against the tips of a white picket fence.
the salary of my wasted time,
dancing apon the filaments of a yellow wattle,
whos flower heads bobbed against the creaters fence.
time was catapulted back into time, by an
authorative screech of a gang of cockatoos,
storming down from the skies of time.
here in the streets of now, doft of
wattle, charcoaled apple, encrusted
with burnt pastry, waltzed through
my nasal allyways.
the wind of guilt crystalised, just desserts.
shoulder with the great wheel of the misstress of hope,

Acacia(Latin name) Wattle(common name)

smiling towards, pensioned autumns,
apple encrusted, on a bed of wattle.
capture this golden doft.
capitalise-pensioned days in a bottle.~written by
B.W.Campbell. 10 dec 2007.