A blob of fluff fallen

on the scuff of bitumen

where a walker strolls

in the winter cold.

A tiny feathered thing

with a chance to live.


Person takes this thing

as yet unformed, to calm

and sun and makes a nest

and pigeon lives and knows

and finds a place one day

where cosmos grows


to be half pigeon

and half  like the human heart

who gave it life and walks by



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Spem in Alium

And so it is always thus.


They talk of bridges and great things

and better times and hope and of course

of course we all agree


except that the left behind, who are always

left behind, are pondering

food and shelter


and the other left behind, who often

feel they are left behind, need



or so currawong reflects

the breeze ruffling its feathers

in the interregnum


and some have hope

that hope should reside

in solidarity


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Speedwell little plant, like a boat

rocking away to the USA

they call you carefree, is that for us

or for you,  so you can toss your blue

around the rocks and go as wild as

nature in the silent sun… speedwell

little friend, the soil is dry and a spot

is bare


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