One clump of dark green pine,

in coal country, behind the escarpment;

in a hollow, the other side of town,
along the Great Western, furrows

of coal-bits, drift of steam, state houses,

scattered about like spilled boxes.
One clump of dark green pine,

amongst tailings, by the pit-town that lies

low as a stifled cough, into the hills
black as tumours, into hill-shadow;

further on, Lake Windemere, half appears,

smudged hillocks, earth a dull yellow.
One clump of dark green pine,

nettles at the base, as thick as a door-mat,

coppery glow against the sun's shield
that drops over the Blue Mountains –

mining-town behind, slurried, on this high

dark falling off the rising ramparts.