If I were a poet,

I would balance each word upon

the many scarlet tongues of the bottle brush:

suspended between sunlight and shade,

and sipped by stripe-bellied honeyeaters

with perfectly pointed beaks.

If I were a poet,

I would lay down my empty page

by memory’s leaning bough:

shedding crescents of silvery-grey and pale brown;

skirted by hollow seeds, faded blossom and

the forgotten sheathes of trees.

If I were a poet,

I would not seek to fasten my poems to the sky,

for these words are like the fallen things:

only shadows and shimmer-shapes

of what has never been born and never dies,

but only quickens and subsides.

Milmeray, 2012