Perhaps you walk
down the western slope
in the dying of light
and watching the old dog, still
running yet, chasing the ricochet buzz
of blowflies, tracer fire in the low sun

you look on the metal seam
the river-line, its hills falling
one beneath the other
and the dust, thin spirits
calling up to heaven
and think, well, of history,
of happiness, of what else it is
you might have found
down there, beyond the gate's rust

in the coming night
of the bushland's dark parchment.