by David Atkinson

When I hear the screech of white cockatoos,
common in lambent light, welding at daybreak,
I know that all is as it should be,
habitual welcome, familiarity
of early morning.

But it is in our natures to grasp
for more. When I await your corella keynotes,
resonance in your remote domain,
Lane Cove National Park, brushwood base,
I discern that I am dreaming of the unusual,

of salvaging a sapphire from the slough.
When I crave your call, I understand
that you will open me to that
rare experience which transcends
regular routine, the daily humdrum.

You teach me that each of us has a territory
which we treat as home,
where we seek to rest at peace.
You instil in me the virtue, the value,
of patience, of waiting.

I muse that yearning is my hope that
you will emerge to explore your northern range,
you will lead me into nuances of insight.
I recall and I comprehend
that sustained stillness can be rewarded.

When I inhale the shifting talc of spring
or the misty must of a winter storm,
you unveil for me the fragile balance
of purpose and perception.
And I immerse myself in your strident shriek.