Currawong ramble.

Scowls and scrapes up the trees
Looks in the window, and sees me there
As though to say: “when I were a lad in
A lamp-lit street, I had your man disease”

Now the Currawong has flown apart
From the coup, the tart of a mother
Had left all his blood beak brothers
Had straddled twigs, to depart

Toward the rushing scrub ground
And an inverted heaven, heart
Beating earth, a shackled wing
Of everything that flight wouldn’t bring

When you deprive earth, of a chance
To sing, and let it flap with one singular thing:
“Let me bring, let me bring” all that rings
In the ears of those that chance ,

At all the love,
All the loam,
All the dust,
All the rust,
All the rain
All the sweet
Loam, loam, loam
Oh how I love that word,
It tells of all the songs unheard
If I could scrape talons through time
Over and over again,
To there I would fly, fall, keep
One eye on you –
And:
Dig
Flap
Dig
Flap
Caaaaawww like an old and happy
Crone,
And sleep.