the
voice of bicycle wheels
singing
the way back home in the dark
the
light torch in my hand too weak to reach the footpath
which winds its way down the hill
which winds its way down the hill
past the paddock of trees destroyed by bulldozers
the voices of trunks lying dumped on clay
the pit at the edge getting bigger and deeper
with its gloomy bass notes so low below the murder
remembering
cockatoos and ravens in their branches
when
they stood not so long ago so tall above the grasses and rocks
swimming towards the creek in the depth of the valley
waiting for the next hundred year flood
whose
song has not been heard for so long now
the
rocks hot tempered at the way they’ve been captured
in
big piles under this disapproving moon
singing its way through the clouds coming off the mountain
singing its way through the clouds coming off the mountain
trying
to break free
straining
for the right notes to capture this war
'the right notes' Myron! Beautifully evoked melancholy with just an edge of anger - moving.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Efi. Much appreciated.
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