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The unidentified outlines of our lives the hidden layouts of the city seem to become clear facing Blackwattle Bay
Lone sculls glimmer on the early-morning water as their trails dissect the bay morning 7am, the world begins brightly
Gliding swallows, like spirits around my feet flicker past, dark against the cut-back grass a sudden blur of hurrying grace
The whirr of beating wings like an assault by angels an unexpected greeting from behind the thudding runners of a mugger a frantic bird, startled on guard against strangers returns to its station stirs humid air with its foreboding wings
labours to gain height lumbering like a freight plane on a runway
a world turned to water
© Stephen Cassidy, 1992
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Facing Blackwattle Bay |
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poetry |
