Symphony
The squawking parrots open
the first bars of morning,
breaking the hush that held the night;
the crows to my knowledge
have never committed murder,
except to screech intentions
at an empty sky;
the earliest dog walkers
totter like treble clefs,
led by their owners
in the opening movement
across the dewy park;
the swings barely awake
watch the slide
still slouched in sleep.The old man in his driza-bone
raincoat, Akubra hat and
wrap-around sunglasses
starts the chorus of
older folk, making curtain
calls across geranium lined paths;
Slowly the children, with turtle-styled
backpacks, make their way across the
bridge to school;
feet and bicycles in percussion beats
finding their way into the day;
while mothers follow, phones
already clutched for all day connection.Outside people
striding, nodding, quick
exchanges of ‘nice day’ or ‘bit cold’
but the woodwind in number 23
speaks of deep longing;
the strings in number 41 whisper
of abandonment, longing for a guitarist
that has no place in an orchestra;
and everyone’s relieved number 57’s
triangle has lost its beater.Suburban symphonies
conducted somewhere
near you© Tanya Southey
#52words52weeks
#monthlymusing
