Sunday

A short poem about those first waking moments of a Sunday morning in Oz.

There's light,
Its tentative fingers
Pick at my eyelids,
The summer alarm
Of screeching Rosellas,
Wheeling and squealing
Their six a.m. greeting
She's been feeding them,
Seeding them, yet again
For days now.
Cockatoos will be next,
Flickering in swarms
Like airborne white linen
Against a Wedgwood-blue sky.
The scent of fresh coffee
That siren song,
Drifts in like a veil
Irresistible, beckoning,
A day, full of promise,
Waits outside the door
But first the papers
Breakfast and more.