One by one they all leave us behind

Walking into surf or slipping through trees they leave us

On long slabs of bitumen who created this language – we survive.
It seemed fitting that he should go forever

As the world turned away from the heat, and the long burn

Of the roads he knew so lonely sent him up. 
Grass lines the verges. In summer the birds came down to eat the seeds.

They bobbed and turned like clowns, raucous and ready to scatter

Should the mower trundle out to mark its tenor on the season.
A chill crept out amongst the scrub

and all the lorikeets shuffled and thought of flying.

Across the headlands and promontory spikes 
A metal roof threw the light back into evening.

Somewhere an engine hummed, and cows

by the roadside sent out a rumour in low moan.
His was an old sunlight. The falling quiet over grass that bends

With wind tunnelled by magpies. Their ventures

Sought the limits of the season. We waited for the blade to start back up.