The magpies

nesting in the beech

began shouting

angry

to see a squirrel

in their tree

Attracted

like bad boys in the playground

more magpies

joined in

hopping from branch to branch

a harsh chatter

of anger

The squirrel

preferring a quiet life

left

by way of my garden

wall

Today the tree is silent

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This piece, over twenty years old, came to me largely in a dream about being a poet.

Adamson Adrift

We sat on the wharf at East Balmain,

where the ferries make the Harbour

never still,

and Robert Adamson floated away

with grace on the violent tide,

as we looked on the streams

of the living

(as in air, we were in motion)

and in action, and relative calm

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