Bird Play

A bird-morn, full tums from melaleuca

Nectar and a sun just risen to a raucous

Dawn, a sky-swoop of song.


The yellow Cape weaver would warble

At 4, small, delicate sounds

That lulled me into the dreaming hour


When traffic gathered speed

Along Louis Botha Avenue

A sparrowed street.


Here, mammal-birds survived

The endless flight across

The Oceanic sky, thrusting


Bravado on the gardener below

Lifting bags of soil to make

A Jo’burg bed.


I remember the city of trees

At bird-play, how robins would thread

Their nests from our hands,


Such gentleness. We heard

The loerie and its go away call

And flew far beyond horizons


To garden with maggie

On foreign ground. Now I recall that first

Mourning cry, the currawong, instead.


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