Melaleuca’s wrought iron fence
is buried in grapes and passionfruit.
The miscellaneous orchard within,
begins in the burnt out shell
of a nineteenth century caravan
and ends at the letterbox.
Peaches, nectarines, citrus and avocado,
hide stolen park benches
from surveillance drones.

Sorcery, her guitar, invited me here.
I painted Melaleuca in the sky,
with my synesthete palette,
before I glimpsed her in the treehouse.

Mel’s doormat celebrates a long gone lover.
“To mere appetites you’re ice cream
fresher than Kosciusko’s finest snow.
To the spirit you’re endlessly more
than pundits of words will ever know,”
it reads in silver copperplate.

Inside, exquisite chaos gives way
to sparse furnishings.
On spalling brickwork;
gold gilded cirrus,
bathed in every shade of flame,
hangs like inter dimensional portholes.
Mel’s bonsai village sits in a jacuzzi,
rescued from the rubbish tip.
Her basement is a mushroom farm.

The games of naked twister,
were as unexpected as the twister
that tore the roof from next door’s shed.
Eventually, I realized Melaleuca does everything naked.
“This is my daily dose of vitamin D,”
she explained, while hanging hand washed clothes
from hothouse joists.
She’d sooner purchase a helicopter
than a “laundry machine.”

Mel slips into a dress fashioned from
antique Loch Ness Monster curtains.
She piggy backs Sorcery to the treehouse.
I am her cover artist,
now it’s time to call a singer.


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