High Noon


The street seems empty in the sun
birds rest, quarrels cease;
an ibis passes the gate,
beak swinging rhythmically.

Houses, unkempt rusty relics
burdened by dust of decades,
historically huddle together
and bow to the wind.

Happy Jacks hang on wires,
territorial terrorists,
Nature’s opportunists controlling
their environment.

Red road reflects hazy mirages,
skinks sunbake on posts
eating ants on parade,
crows complete the food chain.
 
By Frances McKay
 


Copyright © – Frances Mackay 2004