MORNING GLORIES IN WAITAKERE



Morning Glories, you’re terrible weeds
invasive strumpets, but every time
your trumpets leap out of the green and gloom
like an actinic flash of purple lightning
you redefine the colour for me,
burning an afterimage, stygian and hyperbolic,
of dancing imperial pomp
scorched into my retinae.

Always jamais vu as if I had never seen
purple before, unicorn horn bud and trumpet shell,
crown chakra, dynastic veronica, psychedelic heliotrope
all noxious splendour and vulgar immanence
a galaxy of pendulous haloed moons and corona-girt suns
carelessly radiating out beyond the limit of the visible:
Pleione vibrating at the Highest C of indigo
formless, limitless, transcendent, and unchanging
fallen from the brow of Shiva:
Shiva of the crescent moon and the blue throat
tidily folding yourself away in late noon like an umbrella

in the five stellar ribs of your corolla. 

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