Is this the eye’s needle or the wind in a rag?

Is this a muslin hedgerow or a delinquent Roman numeral?

A cute little shillelagh, or is it kitty-kat porn?

Attila’s airbrush or an ex-solstice window-shopping?

A damaged kidney or a spectre sleeping in a lawnchair?

I’m not quite sure if this is angel-wire or banana-bread.

I can’t see if it’s toothbrush-sweat or a rose’s brow.

The tomato of solitude or a gnat holding in a breath.

A recipe for sheep or one twin murdering another.

Who can say? Who can really even see from here?

If this is the papal sandbox or a berry’s crushed interior.

If this is a portable solar system or it’s Scotland’s chin-dimple.

A cola-flavoured bandicoot or the heart of the blizzard.

Or it may be just a wheel-gasp on its last legs.

A shepherd muttering oaths into his false beard.

A cantaloupe writing and re-writing a classical barb.

The chanteuse who comes in a variety of colours and forms.

Or it’s only the wind talking, that would be more like it.

The wind struggling with the power and the glory of the word.

The wind talking the ear off of a fluttering damselfly.

The wind telling a story and there’s no one to hear.

Like a haywain at the top of a hill or tragic peanut butter.

Like a terminal sigh. Death’s kiss. Fiery wishes.

Bruce McRae is a Canadian musician and poet who only recently returned from England after thirty years of self-imposed exile. He’s had over 500 publications and is now getting airplay for his poems he’s set to music, a nine year project just completed. His website is: www.bpmcrae.com/