Morning

The yellow chair and the red
sit at the pine table on the verandah
waiting for tea.

The voice of that crow
I can’t kill
saws through the chairs’ legs.

Green hills sit hands in laps


smoke coming from their nostrils.
Here come the guinea fowl
last to roost and first to rise —
a flock of nuns ringing their tiny bells.

An island floats in the dam
a burnt meringue in a green jelly.
One wild duck drags its silver victory flag
around and around the dam
while the blond boy sleeps on
in this old wooden house
sailing through the breathless morning.

 

Recent articles by Kate Llewellyn.

Sleep
Ghazal, The boat, and What I have lost
The Mermaid

 

 

submit a comment

Similar Articles

Book reviews

  • Godfrey Moase, Marcelle Mogg, John Carmody
  • 10 July 2006

Reviews of Frontier Justice: Weapons of mass destruction and the bushwacking of America; Best Australian political cartoons and Quarterly Essay, ‘Made in England: Australia’s British Inheritance’.

READ MORE

Not another word

  • Jim Davidson
  • 10 July 2006

Jim Davidson’s verdict on Don Watson’s Death Sentence: The Decay of Public Language.

READ MORE

We've updated our privacy policy.

Click to review