An eighties poem – the Australia series


The road glitters

Buckles like a whip

Unfolding through the bush for miles

It’s scrub, arid to the eye

The pupil splits to encompass

This land of wind-picked colours

Burnt out trees are

Grubbed up by a belt of fire

The deep horizon sings

Eyes deceive; pools of oily water

Etherise into hot blocks of air.

A crow with a cry like a bleating sheep

Flies heavily from a dead kangaroo

Its tail stiff on the road.

Unlike the Aborigines

We pass through quickly

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