-morning, November 19-

By the time I've washed-up and dried-up

the coffee’s perked and I drink it.

To take a look outside

I'll open the heavy drapery
from the large double-doors
overlooking the deck, which
from the east railing faces the river.
Nothing's going on to the north or to the west,
well, not within my line of sight.

Southward, Narraganset Bay seems drifting
like a blue-grey ream of steel rolled into Rhode Island Sound. 
The season confronts me without quarrel, and winter closes in.

Inventory is taken
of the stores in three-day old

to be ripped and scattered across
a patch of backyard to the benefit of the birds.

I’ll get to them eventually.

A Les Murray poem

I read last night comes to mind
from the volume:
"Subhuman Redneck Poems"––
one which I’ve read a number of times

and although I can't say the goings on in New South Wales
hold residence in my daily activities, the poem  
seems to stimulate the senses, particularly relevant
given the hard history of cotton processed in my own community.
It opens thusly below its unassuming title:

"The Family Farmers' Victory"

"White grist that turned people black,
  it was the white cane sugar
  fixed humans as black or white. Sugar,
  first luxury of the modernizing poor.

  It turned slavery black to repeat it.
  Black to grow sugar, white to eat it
  shuffled all the tropic world. Cane sugar
  would only grow in sweat of the transported".

I set my sites on the keyboard

without a plan or diagram or page to pounce on the screen.

The story develops as clarity develops,
an image which might expose itself in a little while
and if that happens, the birds will have to wait for their bread,
maybe 'till tomorrow.
those feedings will be referred to as rips and scatterings in four-day old.

Swansea