A block from Punt Road


locked in
waiting
killing time

she's late

frustrated
the traffic worms   pulse
inching across the rear vision mirror
metal bodies on squat rubber legs
spasmodic shunt
to the next set of lights

the daily grind;
a congested conveyor
spitting casts to the factory floor

above, a winter wash of blue
latticed branches litter the sky
loquacious birds in sunlit space
attics flare their wooden nostrils
a cat soaks up the warmth

somewhere, a cello
poignant   soulful
resonates
in harmony

she isn't coming
I am loathe to leave


©Leigh Hay 2007