2010+, look

The building’s ungainly.
Glassed-in balconies bulge
     from dirt-coloured walls.
     Not tall, not squat,
it neither looms nor crouches.
It stands, seven levels,
     behind its frizzy hedge,
     its toothy gate. But I
don’t have to judge it
as I go along the path.
     I live within, in the space
     behind the windows
where breezes twirl through
and sunlight tangoes in.

the young policeman
hangs his hat
on his gun

the haiku poet
broad feet
in delicate shoes

small white feather
facing the stratus sky
a beggar’s hand

spring in the Cultural Centre
lavender tangles
with banksia

in the city
no-one notices
the ten-metre wall

a spring seedling
three tiny leaves meet
an enormous shoe

wind blows out my candle
but not the one
on the banksia bush

at last a bird
comes close enough
to write about

against the blue and white spring sky
five black cockatoos
move

lead and follow, pair and
part, flap and
glide

doing
together
their unpromoted dance