A strange alarm clock. I think the parrots who came in late to roost held a grudge, I was getting a message! Camped in the Stirling Ranges, a couple of years back with Jon, and a tree full of parrots.
It happens that way,
that my words not so much tumble
plunging into your very being,
and so begins a pas de deux,
a dance of sharpness,
exchanging blow by resenting blow.
And finally, exhausted,
we clutch the lifebouy of forgiveness.