by using clothing! Just for fun.)
Heavy, muddy, mouldy,
grass clippings rammed in ribbed soles,
those boots are armour.
He’s dressed to keep nature out,
declared war on red bellies, spiders, soldier ants.
No stings, no bites, no sunshine.
Drab trousers billow like windsocks,
whistle as he walks. He’s anchored them
in wool socks hairy as caterpillars.
Don’t talk to him about caterpillars.
They sent him to hospital once.
Tucked in and buttoned up is his theme,
his cuffs stuffed in leather gauntlets
mottled as cane toads.
On his shirt a beach design.
That’s his joke, his bit of irony.
There’ll be no stripping here.
He may favour tones of moss and decay
but those waves keep rolling in.
He’s turned the collar up.
He’s battled with rays before.
Sunnies clench his skull like a wraparound verandah.
Above it all, a wide brim undulates,
shifts, wants lift off. No chance.
A chinstrap keeps his focus on war.
Lyn Browne © 2015