The early
morning coach departs,
a lone seagull skirts the
civic centre.
Here, last
night, love died
And I take leave with the
dawn.
A new sun
struggles to assert itself,
merging with the lazy haze
of fires.
Housewives cook breakfasts
on fuel stoves:
daylight affirms family and
place.
Heading
north past the caravan parks
cattle methodically feed
knee-deep
in sodden kikuyu,
alert for sound of men
and milking machines.
Cobwebs
spun on wire fences
stretch the highway
and fog fuses
with golden ambers –
autumn leaves changing faces
before winter’s winnowing
mood.
Tomorrow
in the city, I decide,
I’ll buy a new dress, swap
wigs,
step fancy free.
A sign
flashes by –
Sydney 395.
Dianne
Bates
