the deep green valley of the Burra was not green
that hot dry summer, and there were not many cows
as once there were, the oven roasted grass across the
valley floor was occupied by kangaroos
those whose longest toes swing forward two by two
and crunch the ground with agricultural feet so placed
precisely like a bill hook on the harvest straw.
and so begins the day again. The sun soon fells
a paper moon from out the sky and stirs up flies
that rise from under leaves of grass to sit
upon a burr and warm their wings and wipe their feet
and rally to the nose or eye of something dead
too near the road - victim of the rush to work
whose grey and matted fur is broken with the berries
and the little worms that work the secrets in the garden
pulling down a leaf to suck in private rooms
below, at night. the evidence does not like the light.
and on the withering hand revolves around the earth
brushing past the tops of trees collecting beetles
gold and fat into the crevice of another
hand below, creased and accurate with the fault
that arrows like a fortune line from south to north
directing water to the deepest cleft the creek
to fill the holes. and there the water dragons creep
onto the jasper speckled rocks to warm themselves
intact for ancient hours. the shiver of dawn passes
and warmly rising air animates the trees
like bent nails hammered into iron ground
clothed in tears, they litter the grass with shaved
skin and oil and timber and ants and little cups
filled with sawdust. the grease dark earth is muzzled
with debris from trees. the incandescent mizzle
as sun hits it slowly interpolating leaves
a rainbow over London Bridge - the Roman arch
over the water pool - Silurian limestone hewn
by elemental nature, carbonic acid forced
through fractures of the lime by time by time by time
long ago the Ngarigo touched home here
and larked beside the creek - the burra - old ground
known to modern man and stories fit to every
thing, each tree and stone, echoing archaic time.
heroes marched across this arch, their flashing deeds
not known by us, only the stones remember them,
and that water dragon, in his timeless eye
peering at us dressed in our paintbox fabrics
noticing our different noises and our carelessness
stamping over stones. disturbing ghosts.
the fast grab of conversations echo up
past the metronome of modern life unpacked
into the country belt. herculean towns
screwed into the orange clay. iron sheets
trailers and postboxes stand like flags
foreign trees take root and bleed like crimson sores
the autumn breeze evacuating smoke from boxes
scattered dice upon the gaming table plane
water tanks stand on piles, febrile scars,
a flying cigar in the skyzone commute route
parliamentary visitors hang in low descents
and gaze across a signature of lives
water quartered by a pinus swastika
fences riding ridges beside a car trail
a thousand ponds of foil striking through the haze
reflect the sun's relentless gaze -
- 'not the sun
that is djaua' says the roving eyed budalag
'he is the one who stole the fire ...'
