Shelby Street

Rising with the light like a gentle mist
forgetting everything
while bell birds sing beneath the skin
seeking to weave my thoughts
deeper into a nest of dreams.

Rising again
with damp shoes and chicken food
leaden hands on iron gates
soaking now as the grass sheds frost
and through the hollow halls
the currawong calls
and sings to me of sleep.

Rising once more
fumble to count the days trailing out
along my path and back into the trees
and in the stillness
and in frantic, minutely detailed activity
the day slips into existence
whilst I linger behind
unable to read the language of the sky
or decipher your message of messy stars.

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