Its only a short flight for a curious crow
from country’s carrion to the city’s illusion.
The stars are hidden, light kills the night.
Molly and I come down the mountain
to unnatural night noises of drunken
omnivores, loud in their ignorance
of water vegetation and blood.
In the metallic carbon scented morning
the city cafes and bookshops fill with
the swelling crowd of Babylon.
The hiss of steam, the froth of busy ideas,
warmth and noise of shared ambitions.
The odd poet sitting alone, tuning inspiration.
My blue heeler looks for yappers under
the cafe tables, fed on cereal bits
as dry as politicians promises.
We pass girls chatting mysteriously
about last nights indiscretions.
There is poetry in their laughter, for
the flowers of ambition can be picked twice.