Writing

A Poem: Ghost of Sydney

I’m not used to these

twisted trees and brittle, old paths.

Scared to put foot in

front of foot

when each step could be

a misstep.

 

The ibis, I’m sure, is an ex-Sydneysider.

 

Little-faced old maid.

You’re a ghost of who used to be here.

You,

who,

here, with black wrinkles – is still

shocked white

to be a ghost.Ibis

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