At Broughton St lookout

Reflections on Sydney.

There is a wooden seat,

Some four feet wide,

Aside a buckling bridge

That reaches ridge to ridge.

Sitting there and staring

‘Cross the glaring water way,

These myriad reflections

Meet me on the bay:

Glass and steal projections

Rising from the quay,

High above the ferries and 

A whistling fisherman  – 

The chorus of the sea.

I look down and find a hug

From a little lady bug,

Latching on my thigh 

And not letting go ’till I 

Could promise that I 

Could stay 

As many days

As she had spots

Atop my own premonitions 

And faulty indecisions. 

Honestly so, 

I do not know 

If this bug

Is ever letting go.

* * *

At the Gardener’s Lodge

Sitting, sipping hopefully,

Another Monday’s latte.

Late afternoon

And three months 

Away from June, 

I see, through 

Parted clouds, the sun 

Doting on a swimming loon. 

These waters 

And their reeds are still, 

A windy braille

We read with our fingers 

Through our hair, 

A diary writ in air.

Then it bit 

Above the thumb,

A searching ant

I set upon the table. 

This little one, 

Ever young,

Swinging on his six legs softly

Like a cradle

Gently rocking.

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