Monday, June 09, 2003
A poem I wrote last Saturday.
Saturday
High on the hill
I peg out weekly washing:
below
an audience of palefaced houses
crouched like a congregation
before a brooding slag queen
who wears a tiara
a temple to coffee
and broken miners
sends trains her heralds
willing sacrifices
swallowed by the long dry plains
terrible in their noonday beauty
gentle in the afternoon sun
fingers of light dance among saltbush
in twilight
ravages of kangaroos
will ring this town
impossible to escape by night
and yet, it is strange:
I can love this place
Where light is so tangible it can be held
where life can spring from the sands
but now
the sea calls me
BH 7/6/03
Piokiwi 1:09 pm
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