Macquarie Harbour inlet.
Trees not even a body’s width
and so crammed up the slope
of boggy moss and wiry ferns, with
tussocks not grass but swords that slash.
A bastard country.
And now the dogs are after us.
Unseen birds jeer
from scrofulous trunks.
That one’s a wren!
Oh Christ a home song.
The breakers roar out west
but up this creek
the shadows lie still on water
green and black, peat beneath,
[even the swans are backwards black].
and always the ravens cry defeat.
Onwards dragging, sideways tearing.
Take your choice of death.
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