(Warning: post contains amateur poetry)
The cats lie on cool stretches of wooden floor.
We've looked at houses, a couple livable, none that grabbed us. In Fitzroy, after pottering through a respectable if smallish house we found a lovely little cafe on George Street, off the beated path.
We shared a cinnamon muffin with cream and a refreshing green tea with orange that tasted like weak TANG.
The paper offered things to be angry about, things worthy of posts. But it is hot, so hot, that it bakes me into submission. And besides, I have an enduring image of China's new approach to winning over Taiwan; Pandas.
Bless. Bilbies for Iran?
So I'm in an idiotic rather than politically-charged mood. Jaded left me a comment. Jaded has a poetry/photo blog. I decided to join in the fun under a photo of a sign to "Platform No. 8":
On platform 8 you
found a door
stood with baggage
spoke to the wind
slept a second
hummed in E minor
and laughed, briefly, when a pigeon shat.
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