Blackwattle Bay scene

Silk takes no arrow
yet the birds sing stitching
the morning like a sewing machine,

its heavy pedal comes as traffic comes.
Hums the poise of bridges, brick and metal
the fuels to soil and water.

No one walks their dog or waltzes
their sweetheart but a volume of
bed, lamp and shade

launches out a window.
Any rain we get shows no posture,
all face value, wilful patter and pour.

The horns of tugs sound
with haul and engine stomp.
Daylight is about to take over.