Of white and blue.
The page, the ink,
the shirt, the jeans.
Habits of creation.
Some struggle up a hill
to roll back down,
some wear fluorescent.
Up old ghost gums
along Elster creek
sulphur-crested cockatoos
yell for the hell of it.
I hum “Sunny” by B. Hebb
but slow tempo to suit
the mood, the age.
Worse songs are lifers
locked somewhere within.
Sun, doing what sun does
(cloud or not), receives
my divided adoration as
I sip espresso at beach cafe
before resuming journey
to court Emily D –
a lone white sail, right there,
where blue sea weds bluer sky.
One must not be late.