Sydney Winter

Here, at the nadir of the year

Long-slanted sun, pale yellow on the ground,

And shadows etched out,

Dark-edged and precise.

I have heard magpies

Singing sweetness back

Into these ebb-tide days,

This time withdrawn:

Drained out, laid bare,

The skeleton time when some trees naked stand,

And others rattle dull leaves in the wind.

And wattles blaze

In fiery, brilliant gold

Against the cold

And life leans back

Against their gathered light.

My blood grows thin

As winters pass,

Each swifter than the last;

The cold more keen

Cuts to the bone my self-illusioned strength,

I wait,

Less patiently,

For days of length.