Bleach

Swinging in my hammock,
Bleach in my hair.
Tim Winton lying face up on the concrete below.
Driven
said my mate Tony on Facebook last night.
I’d said flakey, but he corrected me.
Everything made sense in
a flash.
Sure I’m restless,
not grounded,
figety
- call it what you like.
But that’s okay too.
Maybe I am still looking
and maybe not an old tree
roots tugging at the centre of
the earth in the middle of a storm.
Haunted by my destiny,
still trying to learn to smell the roses
but I inspire other people
if not myself.

Swinging in my hammock,
yoga stillness
looking lovelorn at the hills
whilst the wind berates me with stories I don’t understand.
The wind chimes sing
The plastic bag on my head
rustles a hoarse plastic bag rustle song
and I’m almost content.