Motes
written by: Jacob Dunstan
The wattle that spoke on the Saturday
afternoon was not for the final time
either as the freshness of starts
can waft in with the pollen and crawl forth
like insidious hope clouds pepper the potential
possibility, by the din-stifled roadside, in
the urban forest, amid footstep-addled
Rhythm.
Latest posts by Jacob Dunstan (see all)
- Motes - November 8, 2025
- Cassingles - May 3, 2023



