By | 3 December 2008

Holding the taut barbed-wire with one hand
And myself with the other,
I gaze at the ground
As hundreds of shining grey dust droplets
Roll away from the rotting fence post,
Down the hill, moving like mercury.
The drumming piss
Makes surf of the dirt,
Churning it into frothing mud.
Apostle birds (perhaps twelve of them)
Launch and fan off above my head,
Upset as I shake off the last bead
And refasten.

This entry was posted in 33: PASTORAL and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

Comments are closed.