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Zinc White and Blue Ultramarine
I hear currawongs threading
their melodic calls through
the trees, sewing a dark
into the cold air.
And far below,
a flock of white cockatoos
screech their noisy chaos
along the deepening shadows
of the valley floor.
They seem like dabs
of zinc white escaping
from a painting, sprouting
wings to lift them
from the canvas
and fly them to where
they flicker on the edge
of the unseen,
before dissolving forever
into the distances
of blue ultramarine.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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