After years in Melbourne
with its arid design,
its treeless streets
ruled in straight lines

I came home
to a bodily place
where even
the ground undulates

like the pleats
of the Moreton Bay figs,
unfurling
like squid

the air as soft as a brush,
furred
like a peach
when it reaches to touch

the lorikeets
perched in the
paperbark trees,
jacarandas, frangipani,

colours I wore
like a flag
in Melbourne’s
narrow band of black

the sunlight
like margarine,
a yellow admixture
that warms

the streets that
meander,
the wagon tracks
of thought

and smudges
the colours
like good pastels,
oily to the touch

even the grit
seems organic,
an excess
like mould

or the rats
that cross paths
in
Hyde Park,

the cement that
splits
over
roots

There’s something
about this plenitude
that offends them
in Melbourne,

like a sibling
too richly endowed,
whose undeserved fortune
makes them

heedless
and
proud