PATTERJACK’S BIRTHDAY

 

In Sydney, at the closing of the day,

as sunset trims with flame the bobbing masts,

and evening lamplight glitters on the bay,

patterjack logs in. He gently casts

his eyes on verses from remote location

a hemisphere and half a day away.

 

He lays his stanzas softly on the screen;

a lifetime’s instinct permeates each line

as every word means what he aims to mean

he changes water into vintage wine.

The truth, from his particular vocation,

he tells, so we might see what he has seen.