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Two Pieces by Trevor Reeves
CONE HEAD
In a bizarre accident today,
during cyclone ebola,
an apine cone crashed
down into the eye
of a camper, innocently riding his
21-speed to the washrooms,
and killed him. That was a holiday
that wasn't, and shall be
never any more.
They picked him up, wet with rain
and dried him out
in the utility room.
He fell through the cracks
you could say,
of luck. They
buried his bike
on the spot and drank rum in a circle,
then another cone struck
killing a rum-soaked mourner
revelling in this mysterious twist
to his holiday.
However, this weather, the radio
said,
was only local.
SNAG
grass, colour of a lion's mane, and the
real deep blue
of the mountains
hustled under a busy sky, clouds queueing,
greet us here.
This man is flicking his fly rod
next to our tent,
thwick, intense
furrowing fly,
whipped to the spot,
on dry earth.
"You won't catch any fish
on this land," I tell him;
he wiggles his face, in
inscrutable obfuscation, sighs,
"I know where the water is,
he says menacingly," and at that,
the blue-rinsed mountains
take on a rosy hue
as I bike to the loo
Trevor Reeves is well known to readers of net
journals as the editor of *Southern Ocean Review*
(http://www.book.co.nz). He has published poems,
stories and comment in many magazines throughout
the world for over 30 years. Recent stories and
poems have appeared in *Kimera*, *WWW2*, *Free
Cuisenart*, *Eclectica*, *Moondance*, *Trout*,
*Razor's Edge*, * 2River View*, *Equinox*, *Glottis*,
and other journals. He lives in New Zealand.
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