Morning
He has feasted on light.
Blinds clatter, slice the sun.
Out there in the bottlebrush lorikeets screeching,
same as before.
He perches beside her, tells her about the day.
‘Cumulus’ he says.
She was there when the clouds were down,
marvelling at the patience of cows,
hearing the kookaburrah announce he’d seen it first.
A solitary pine, ragged scarecrow,
was poking through the white.
She’d watched the clouds remember they must move on.
Later they’ll have breakfast outside,
convince themselves the air is clear enough to see the coast,
each of them believing they were there first.
-Lyn Browne
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