Canberra Morning

Morning: such long shadows

like low-bellied cats

creep under parked cars

and out again, stealthily

flattening the grasses.

 

At the bus stop

a flock of starlings:

school-children, chatterers,

swinging haversacks,

pulling ribbons.

 

The driver’s got a book by

Sartre in his pocket.

He wears dark glasses,

listens moodily

to the Top Forty.

 

Life gets better

as I grow older

not giving a damn

and looking slantwise

at everyone’s morning.

by Rosemary Dobson

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