the shrill voice of a foreign bird against the traffic,
a line of preening house martins on a wire,
our courtyard itched by a dry leaf,
scritch-scratch as the breeze pushes it along.
cars whoosh by with ridiculous purpose,
homes left empty, beautiful, purposeless.
a distant siren in the summer Sunday;
perhaps someone has died today, lying on the beach
with a cappuccino.
the evening breeze comes silent; only the gentle sway
of a vine, its tiny unripe grapes dangling.
music hurled from a car we cannot see, blasted
by a person we do not know,
one dog after another breaks the night
woofing and whining;
if I didn’t love dogs, there’d be big trouble.
Lisa Reily is a former literacy consultant, dance director and teacher from Australia. Her poetry and stories have been published in several journals, such as Panoply, Amaryllis, Riggwelter, River Teeth Journal (Beautiful Things), and Magma. Lisa is currently a full-time budget traveller. You can find her at lisareily.wordpress.com.