Rosella

We need only to be here to see them

Slantwise to a slope, us all coffee’d out,

Bending flight at whistling speed

At rail, tip to tail a perfect balance, up about

Though where those colours came from

It’s anyone’s guess they are gone again

Spring ocean blue gumnut cochineal

Through gaps in trees along thin riverside.

For the Gould League colour-in book

We sharpened the crimson Derwent

Edges of indigo shaved into empty inkwell

Childhood coming close as possible poised

To evolution’s inexplicable blending

Delicately over template paper pushed.

Rosella (April)

Wye River, disfigured from the Wye we knew. Orange webbing sections off no-go areas. Hired fencing stops drivers entering ruined back streets. Changes to skyline and contour come into view at every step and stop. Red heads of rosellas reconnoitre in treetops. Their crimson sides resemble gum-flowers, road reflectors. They haven’t changed. Their blue arrows through gullies, dives across rooftops, describe familiarity. Seed-bearing trees were destroyed in hundreds. So, we’re allowed to feed the birds, a pastime normally condemned by residents. This April the restless rosellas arrive swiftly. When pushier birds push off, they stroll up to the scattered grain.