Parked by the roadside
at Myponga
along the Fleurian Way
I watch pale grasses
dance to Mali beats
as blustery winds
whip garbage bins
into a percussive frenzy -
branches weakened
by the dry summer, snap
spiralling downward
in death rolls
timed to nature’s beat
their thudding climax stolen
by a shrieking tinny reed
and a voice calling
time for a cuppa.
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