stars descend to
decorate the skyscrapers
save two, still aloft
-
-
a thousand birds
shake the plane tree, arguing:
sunset comes too soon -
empty brown scales
bright green cones, closed. needle-fans
cockatoo well-fed -
clouds slate and crimson
cloak wind, wanderers — both bent
on deeds of legend -
no rhyme can count them —
called by a handful of bread,
twenty-one magpies.though the wise warn,
no magpie ever found long life
inside a Maccas' bag -
galahs , crows circle
through a pixelated sky —
a scene in raindrops -
this first fog, enough
to paint grass turquoise-grey, plus
a few extra wisps -
past the horizon,
sunlit, on a sunless day
the hills of fairyland -
rough dawn, half-open —
gray, mother-of-pearl sky —
the world, your oyster -
plane-tree seed-pods
crumble underfoot, each piece
mint-choc-chip green
Jenkins Rising 