Late Summer Fires

The paddocks shave black
with a foam of smoke that stays,
welling out of red-black wounds.
 
In the white of a drought
this happens.  The hardcourt game.
Logs that fume are mostly cattle,
 
inverted, stubby.  Tree stumps are kilns.
Walloped, wiped, hand-pumped,
even this day rolls over, slowly.
 
At dusk, a family drives sheep
out through the yellow
of the Aboriginal flag.

 

from
Subhuman Redneck Poems, 1996




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