The
Strzelecki Mountain Killings (I, II, III)
II
Elizabeth
Watkins Creek speaks in flowing,
most
often, a rustle in the back ground
like
the child up first for the Christmas presents,
or
a whispery kiss on your ear.
Sometimes,
a lunging push that wakes in flood
when
the careless water sprite surge might just
grab
dangling ankles off the stringy bark bridge
past
the driver’s ford;
rolling
over winded flat out on your back the last thing seen
a
stencil of doily tree ferns stitched on to looming white gums.
Black
wallabies sip at the giggle of her ribs,
waving
off the early traffic
where
the sandy gravel rides the perimeter circus curves.
She
springs too early, washing down McDonalds Track;
the
mountain quakes its fist for her again
pleading
release from the undercurrent leash
slapping
the bitumen harness away.
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