A solid phrase can be hard to grasp. I can say

it and mean it here but not there, where Daisy Bates

is a conduit. Places where Peter Allen irons the Dadaist blue

skies, with the Nolans and a few wet chooks. Toast’s popping

up, kettles are boiling, books are being taken off the shelf

to whack things with. Sidney Nolan’s just out of sight

painting a brolga in a miner’s helmet. Daisy Bates is a

word atmosphere. (You are in Pasto; you are in Cartagena.)

      There

are a lot of tracks out there made by humans. The

unsaid is circling; being circled. A lion of some kind (or

labrador) lies by the fire. Knowledge settles in. It comes from

the one who runs the Post Office. A postcard for the

kids in the Qantas ad. You can try to hang on

to that word but it’s gone. The toaster’s Daisy Bates. The

table’s Daisy Bates. It was a season in hell, with smoke

and the smell of rancid water. Breaker Morant flies over in

a labrador. ‘I’ve been a gal on the town, but now.’

‘I love you’ flies over in a giant wet cat. It

gives an impression of rain to the town below. The toast’s

veiled on the Edwardian rack, the kettle wears mustard riding gloves

‘I Still Call Australia Home’ evokes Daisy Bates at the pianola