by Rebecca Carr
O, where is the moon?
Shades of grey is my sky –
she cannot be seen.
The darkness has worn heavy,
and my thread that connects frays.
Memories of 90 Mile Beach –
Scattered shells, sand;
rock and rolling with the dunes.
Seagulls sing their own chorus,
calmness of the Gippsland Lakes.
But hipsters aren’t dead:
colours of the strobe light,
flow with connection;
As the ravens swoop above,
and the little sparrows dance.
Moving with the beat.
Ripples dance, with sound waves;
lager synchronized.
Lost in my glass with the froth,
remnant of curling waves.
Just as the horizon shifts –
high pitched punks squawk;
As the cymbal crashes down.
Higher frequency found,
as gratitude transmits.