A poem about lost baby hats.

Every summer thousands of baby hats are abandoned on the stinking hot streets of Sydney.

Falling from fumbling tiny fingers they lie forgotten on burning footpaths and dusty nature strips.

Some are reunited with their loved ones after epic adventures in the wind.

Others find themselves sent to the dump where they will spend millennia in a foul smelling hell. These have the worst fate of all.

The few and special however are chosen and brought to the crow queen.

There are thousands of crow queens scattered in murders across the globe. The crow queen of Wattle grove holds court on duck Island. An artificial bird island formed in the middle of a polluted man-made lake. The crown queen reigns court in the center, on a throne composed of twigs, discarded chocolate foil, energy drinks and missing wedding rings.

I can hear her croak from the nearby mac mansions.

Her under wings are a glorious ultraviolet, invisible to the human eye.

She and she alone decides the fate of the abandoned baby hats.

On the first Tuesday of the month, the air grows still.

The hats arrive, dumped and battered at the crow queen's nest.

Precious and forgotten.

The beautiful, adorned with glitter and unicorns will be attached to her trees.

The practical and big gifted to the fruit bats and ringtail possums.

The best of all are flown by the crow brigade. Up

Up

Up

Into a place where the wind rejects gravity.

In the cloud banks.

Where the dead hats will float and fly forever.