The Siamang. (Media).(Poem)

 
THE SIAMANG 
 
   On the day of the eclipse 
   in Perth, where I had nothing else to do 
   between appointments on my business trips, 
   I decided to spend lunchtime at the Zoo. 
   Ferries, yachts and motor boats 
   upon the shining River Swan 
   crossed each other in the sun 
   which poured through branches in a stream of dust-motes. 
 
   Outside the cafeteria 
   where I bought a pre-wrapped sandwich, 
   and where a trellis, strangled by wisteria 
   ropes, dappled the pathway with shade, while rich 
   mysterious scents were in the air, 
   I rested on a wooden bench 
   unconcerned by what that stench 
   might be. Then I noticed, while pausing there, 
 
   that some trick of refraction 
   through the leaves made minuscule suns 
   on the path, hundreds of them, with a section 
   missing from each, as if they were sandwich buns 
   someone had begun to devour, 
   or like a coastline with a bight 
   eroded off a point of light: 
   it meant that we were approaching the hour 
 
   when the moon would draw over 
   the sun a shutter like a vast 
   eyelid--the hour when those discs would cover 
   each other like two yachts which were crossing paths 
   on the Swan. A rending cry came 
   through the leaves, as of a small child 
   in agony, high and wild 
   and brief. It wasn't my business; all the same, 
 
   curiosity did seem 
   to draw me on a walk toward 
   the source of that repeated, piercing scream. 
   An avenue of iron ...