Gippsland, Victoria
I remember him

coming down

the hill,
a lop-sided thing,

sort of rickety

as he bumped 
towards us –

from where his father

lay bloodied, 
neck scythed

like pampas weed

and his mother
leaning over,

a scream choking

the muscles 
in her neck,

now taut and roped

and her red 
wash-day hands

still clutching

at an apron of pegs. 
He passed us, unseeing

coming down

to a new hell.