Iris

Iris

She lives in the understorey.
Within the density of thick bone growth
where confusion cannot be pruned.
She used to be open plains,
golden dunes and solid clumps.
I rode across her personality—
smooth and even, sometimes
small ridges rose to catch a sunset glow.
She has gone.
A broken trajectory
among the bulbous roots
of forgotten smiles.
No more bingo nights at the local hall,
or flimsy floral skirts
barn dancing in a shearers' shed.
Frizzy split ends
replace immaculate pin curls,
broom-handle back
is boomerang curved.
Dozy words/ repeated phrases
loosen the croak on her tongue.
Eyes are washed stone—
grey impassive slabs
beneath a graveyard frown.
Once she was Iris—
without the din of a locust horde
roaring in her head.