Noon's so quiet
fat flies' fiddled jigs
for their square dances, zuzz,
saw silence,
nearly set my boot-heel tapping the decking.
Car tires,
one set plying tarmac,
(offside left's a little low on pressure)
pinpoint progress on the road to Sale,
five paddocks off.
Solitary cockatoo refrains from her refrains,
wonders where mob has gone,
what rich pickings she's missing.
Long-sleeved shirt,
sun-creamed extremities -
indolence in Akubra shade.
Tilt
back brim to watch the lazy sails
of white haze veils;
crick neck up
to see zenith sun wearing
a 22 degree lampshade.
Then the usual drama of jet plane
deeping overhead, descending
to Melbourne.
That gets magpies chatting
like Clangers*, wakes up the gust
from a butterfly's wings, way out
on Marley Point.
Comes roaring in, agitating
spider silks (trailing from yucca)
rips rags of poor poem's premise.
.............................
The Clangers was a UK children's series in the seventies. -Their voices were Swanee whistled:
