Currawong

Wintering in the elms, the currawong
yodel grace-notes

over and over the same melody
crying territory.

One comes close hopping along
the chilly balustrade

getting a grip, curious, courageous
or hungry, maybe.

Head tipped back a top note pitched
clears the cold sky.

Again that pitch, again that
clarity.

 I catch her eye, she flies
 off in grey plumes

 butcher beak hunting
 fresh meat.

Half past three

Sun and shadow chase each other over the grassy oval.
The bell rings.  School children mob the gates.

The afternoon is filled with corner-shop traditions --
ice-cream signage, flavoured milk and squishy lollies.

A century lapses along Inkerman Street
between fence palings and laundry-laden Hills Hoists.

The children mass home to their front doors,
like their parents and grandparents decades ago.

I dream their dreams, remembering
silly commercials interrupting sillier cartoons.

A glaze of latest, must-have toys infiltrates their sleep.
Post-millennial jingles sting immemorial schoolyard rhymes.