barefoot breakfast inside the mulberry trees of Florence Park

high up inside the mulberry tree
my eager limbs mysteriously grow
arms elongating with ape-like reach
following my eyes to the darkest fruit
as my toes hold good and true

my fingers stretch
and reach
and with such ancient satisfaction
tug each blue-black berry from its umbilical stalk

and the flavours that now burst into my mouth
are brimful, pressed down, and overflowing still with
the night’s rich, black splendour
and the morning’s sweet and earthy dew

and as the rising sun wraps itself around my kitchen canopy
the alluvial juices dribble from my tongue and lips
and tumble off my chin
onto skin and cloth and leaf and bark

thus blood-stained by my early quarry
deep, deep from within my breakfast belly
rises a greedy
prehistoric
and gratitudinal groan
of pure and peerless mulberryjoy