A bird’s calling note
reached through branch
after twig after bough
of more than sixty passing
years to jerk me back
into simple colour and space,
pendulous olive of jarrah
green, against cerulean blue.
Looking back, the days of single
acts stretch wide as an old
squeeze-box with only a dozen
notes to play. Then days arc
like old tunes heard again.
Walking out in the yard
in the sun after breakfast
filling the hours of invitation
from a friendly orb, I listen
again to each bird’s calling note.
Glen Phillips
Ó August, 2012.
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