Autumn blue

The old coal smell
of Katoomba
and currawong calls
piercing grey mist.

Early garbage trucks
snort and stumble,
lids clattering to a stop
in pools on pavements.

Up Lurline Street rolls a cloud.
An autumn tree trembles at its passing
and shivers off
a few more yellow leaves.

In room seventeen
Madame Rimski-Korsakov
in a fake gilt frame says
No, I am not the muse
and turns away.