Slippery as dreams,
slabs of sunlight
on dusty roads,
skimming willows’
black depths and sitting
on post and rail fences worn
shiny smooth by generations
of squatters’ kids.
Blackberries in perfect
globules of burgundy juice
ooze down sunbrowned chins
to run in purple rivers along
our fingers as we scrabble
to keep footing on the
bramble hugging banks.
While the creeks of time
run coldly from the mountains
of the South
on a patchwork bed
of rounded sandsucked stones.
And the ghost of Harry Pether
sends us pelting past in terror
from the woolshed in the paddock
by the Old Talbingo’s pub.
No comments:
Post a Comment