Instructed to write a poem called Home
Confused little teaspoon of thoughts, measured against
the picturesque void you claimed was the sky.
Roused from its battered wooden drawer, the spoon
rejected oceans and fire, but struggled for alternatives.
You suggested ferns or flax – though you could barely
identify them – an indigenous design or two, skin
from a sheep, et cetera; concentrated medicine
with a dash of bitterness to immunise against flirty lifts.
Yet, pedants insisted the brew originated elsewhere –
like pendants themselves with roots deep
in the fertilised earth. Undeterred, you squinted,
lifted the mirror and called it, "At home".