Yellow Feathers
I’d been teaching in the old
Infectious Diseases Hospital –
we’d been talking about voice
for four hours.
I went to the AIDS Memorial Garden
to unwind.
First I saw the sign:
Men Doing Tree Work.
Then, from the white gum’s vast spread
of branches
thick ropes hung, almost
touching the ground.
Up in the branches
where the hanging ropes begun
crouched men
in high-viz vests
– yellow, orange, green –
quite still, barely flickering
up there in the eucalypt haze.
Below the men
the heavy ropes hung
deep and still in pooled sunlight.
I also stood still,
my hands hanging.
All of us as if
and the tree trailing its ropes
like a hot-air balloon
except
and later, on the train, going
home, a shabby man
sits beside me. Perched on his arm
a sulphur-crested cockatoo and
without words, just with a gesture
he has the bird unfold
one wing to show the sweep
of yellow feathers beneath.
Then he says, you can touch him.
He won’t hurt you.
Touch him here.
Like this.
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