By | 24 September 2002

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.

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