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I measure this spring weekday
in the metre of a Saturday afternoon
half forgotten         where a plane
drones above Bankstown
in circumnavigation
of a small suburban globe
and on the back veranda
my father snores off
to digest corned beef and sauce.
His dogs sleep with him.

Now, the rush of cars
on Riversdale Road;
through the soles of my feet
the metal-on-metal march
of trams on their way to town;
in my mind the faces of travellers
sworn to solemnity in cold rooms;
in my heart a wish to return to my childhood
and learn to fly again.

Spindrift, 1997