Perhaps you walk

down the western slope

in the dying of light

and watching the old dog, still

running yet, chasing the ricochet buzz

of blowflies, tracer fire in the low sun
you look on the metal seam

the river-line, its hills falling

one beneath the other

and the dust, thin spirits

calling up to heaven

and think, well, of history,

of happiness, of what else it is

you might have found

down there, beyond the gate's rust
in the coming night

of the bushland's dark parchment.