The wattlebird sips
a measure of nectar
from the flowercup
then tips back its head
swallowing this
clear expectorant
breaking up the sky-
tasting notation it needs
to get off its chest
before it can sing
unaccompanied
but for the long red wattles
that loop like blood-
tainted phlegm
from the sides of its leaning face
Late-ripening dark-red apples drop
Out of the tawny-yellow trees.
The sunless day is damp and still.
Wet cobwebs in the trampled grass;
We tread the ferment at our feet.
The bins of autumn slowly fill.
Softly spacious hours pass:
Nothing settled, they entreat
Acceptance of a grateful fall.
A wattlebird with gulping clop
Loudly says it disagrees;
No one heeds its noisy call.
