Just for today
let dishes stay unwashed
and clothes hang for one more turn
on the line.
As long jet-trails merge pink with clouds
and the last hopeful birds
skip through the unmown lawn,
let me doze in a big chair
on the verandah, a merlot
tilting in my hand.
Let me dream of silly years
and hopeless resolutions,
while my TV beams
fireworks from a distant city,
at the end of another trip
around the sun.

I want the sea to rise. I want the map
redrawn to Neptune's wishes. With the poles
no longer white, Pacific tongues will lap
at Bondi doorsteps; those pretentious souls
on pristine shores, with mansions on the sand,
can grow some fancy gills. Good luck, I say.
Eight hundred metres high, three hours inland,
I know the Great Divide will never sway
to watery, wimpy motions. There's my shield.
Does rock beat water? No, but altitude
beats all when Icy Ages are repealed.
And lest my motives still be misconstrued:
I'll relish every cheaper, fresher prawn,
and hope the better rain improves my lawn.