KA Rees #10 - Cradle

Cradle

The weather is in flux, one limb booted in winter the

other pressing a thonged foot on the pedal to summer.

Grey clouds loom, cast down squalls. The cuckoos have landed

and bray at dawn to be chased by smaller birds looping

around the fig. Cuckoos scout for nests to deposit eggs,

their brood much bigger—will out compete locals.

Bats have come and gone again, an early first blush

from the fig has scattered seed over paths, long streaks

of shit staining walls of the house and patio. The strike

of urine sits like beads of dew, pellets

of possum poo rest between fingers of turf lying

in wait for naked feet tromping washing to the line.

Heat can hit suddenly like the balled body of a magpie

striking the side of your head, slit of beak slicing

skin—iron to trickle down the behind the cradle of of your ear.