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.
2010+, look
“the young policeman …”
the young policeman
hangs his hat
on his gun
From The emptied bridge
“the haiku poet …”
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
doing
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
From The emptied bridge