(after discovering Forgotten Songs in Angel Place)
Trying to hurry along an hour , I escape
the rumbling, brash roars of George Street
on a Thursday morning.
seduced
by
a
diagonal
ray
of uninterrupted sunlight, floating its light
down an alleyway like slowly sifted
flour, I chase its rays through a series
of angular, lonely slate-coated corridors
where corporate smokers scatter in crevices.
It doesn’t take much longer to get to more light-
drenched, surrounds – sounds of White –
eared Honeyeaters, throated Treecreepers, browed
Scrubwrens and naped Honeyeaters
Slowly, a Golden Whistler sings, blurring
into a sunset of Scarlet Honeyeaters
and Red-browed Finches
Driven out, not forgotten, they move in
moving and singing with their ghostly
presence, floating above in empty
bird cages, haunting the streets
they once reigned in