Pavlov's Cat has been out having an pre-spring frenzy, and was moved to post a delightful sonnet on her garden. It inspired this one from me:
Four scratching chooks, a busted trampoline,
wasteland veggie gardens - one each side.
An old and sooky kelpie, long past lean,
sleeps underneath the table, always tired.
The hills hoist, weighted down with tiny clothes,
spins slowly over scratchy dried out grass.
The sprinker's somewhere - busted, I suppose.
We've watering restrictions, can't be arsed.
Beneath the wint'ry fruitless fruiting trees,
discarded toys are scattered left and right;
a sandpit of old brown papery leaves;
a rusty drum for fires on cold nights.
My iron claw foot bath sits near the door -
I soak, survey and do not dream of more.