The Unsunken

I was just three

The last frills of snowing thoughts

Were budding across a

Banquet of woodworms

The fumes of a paralytic cigar

Ogled by a pair of irascible eyes

Stunned my olfactory empire

I was three

They were a bloated gloat

Before the death-train arrived

It was gun-powder music the blood-sucking

Throng danced to

These matadors from a primeval outback

I was only three

The trees never burned out in the raging wildfire

And the croc-crested creek

Never ceased its symphonic conundrum