My Hurricane

My hurricane is here, humming through phone wires
and humour, near tears maybe but part of life.
You hurricane will be God's signature,
signing organdy fields and foliage in squares of organised history,
calm light and bitter winds. These hills have seen more blood
that this. The landscape is littered with peace
and surrounded by roads. Smoketree on the horizon.
Your hurricane is for the dispossessed and the names of saints,
mine is the heart to heart and the pulse that races.

This is a dark song
and no mistake
take this gun and shoot

this is a tv
and this is a street
and the man who loves you is lost

Clean and neat, where the water meets the shore,
old buildings are propping up the sky.
Heading out to sea, what a lot of boats!
The wind stinging the eyes, drink stinging the throat,
she's dressed for the bedroom on a clifftop in autumn,
staring unfocused at overcast skies.
Let's go and point a mountain, eat comme chez soi
and burn the soul cats from their homes.

This is a folk song
and no mistake
take my gun and shoot

this is a tv
and this is your room
and the man who loves you is you

The writing in the sky shows we're not at home,
advertising music, it shows we're not alone,
its characters look like faces, local commercial,
priapic and car crash, dollyrich. You're right to be scared.

Your lover's left
your friends are right
and nothing is what you hold

but getting old
and killing things
is the natural order of the world

and let me tell you something else dear
this is not your country
you just live here

Back home, there are boy racers heading for the bridge,
the tracks of tyres and the smoke from fires, guns in the hold,
marks of past volcanoes and wars, trees and churches
broken by history and surrounded by new towns. Also,
a preview of coming attractions, nakedness uncovered,
unreasonable suspicion. Look out your rear window and update!
Little girl prove a masculine point, pretty little cockatoo
should smash his jaw. My hurricane does not exempt me.

Remember that green, that's the green of the green man,
the colour of the world that knew Saracen.

Before Iraq and Iran,
there were the heathen and the Christian gentlemen.
Your hurricane does not exempt you, but mine can.

Fires into the sea like mouths, fires under the water,
there are lupins growing on ash, there graphs like fir trees,
nursery plants for a new forestry on Mt St Helens. Let's go,
new lands with better order may have better parties.
Sorry, caller, we're out celebrating a successful
border crossing. Signed under fire.