Their eyes are steel sequins
fixed with a dark tack
gripping down on soft plastic handles
of deserted supermarket trolleys.
Sitting out of chrome cages
preying on what’s remained
as rubbish, the gun-metal gaze
waits for something to click.
They hold in their stare
a whole expanse of black asphalt
beneath which nothing pulses:
dead earth. They will not shift
for busy shoppers, and know what
ancient rules can now be ignored
or broken. A taming of opposites.
They give no ground. Still rule
the roost. Suddenly wings and flight
to scrappy gum tree branches.
Evening sharpens wind to cold:
all beaks and claws.
Car Park Crows
1 February 2018