Blue eyes, carob skin,
Cotton dress, wafer thin,
Charged glass, cane chair,
Sun hat, viscous hair,
Crossed legs, open face,
Tablecloth – white lace,
Languid arms, book on knee,
Surfeit lips, citrus tea,
Gramophone, sandwich laid,
Torpid grass, prodigal shade,
Laundered sky, secret bay,
Sultry, summer, steaming
Salad day…
Bryson Thomas
Sometimes, when I pull on my socks,
My grown-man’s brain winds back the clocks,
And I recall,
Being small,
When they went up over my knees,
And the Amazon still had some trees.
Bryson Thomas
I used to be a loner, but
My mind is lately changed,
The metronome
That I call home
Is greatly rearranged.
One was once my bastion,
A number quite proficient,
But now there’s two,
And that two is you,
One is insufficient.
Bryson Thomas
Today I’ll be a teacher – at recess,
Kids are laughing.
Or perhaps I’ll be a farmer – in Spring,
Cows are calfing.
Tomorrow? Trading books at a London bazaar,
With loads of friends – a stately car.
Next I’ll guide a ferry ‘neath the Sydney Harbour Bridge,
And draft life as an architect, a plate-glass mansion,
On a ridge.
Then piano and guitar and me singing, centre stage,
And crowds amazed at football skills,
The best of any age.
And now, I am pilot, with a rocket as my seat,
And here, a master chef where every spoon’s a treat.
And there, a philologist, who knows
The origin of ‘tuffet’,
An investor who lends wisdom,
To lesser men, like Buffett.
But today, I have my family, my home, my loves,
Some pets.
The sorts of things we dreamt of young, but now
An older brain forgets.
So today, I’m not a yogi, with a foot behind my head.
Today I am myself,
Which is well enough, instead.
Bryson Thomas
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