I open my presents, the classic ‘Forests of Ash’, ‘Big
Pacific’, ‘Bowerbirds’, a selection box, chocolate orange
from a pillowcase bottom of the bed to remind me
I am still a child somewhere inside my reflection.
A red sky in the morning a non-shepherd’s delight,
noisy young Kookaburras are learning their song
as painful as hearing children play the trombone.
Later the screeching shouts again. They are fighting
over a tasty morsel, neither will let go.
The parent has more food and tries to intervene
A few metres to their right, one of my favourite trees
is soon to be pulverised to wood chips. The relics