A piece of old Buick
i
There's
a bit of canvas rag with a handle blowing around.
It
looks like a handle:
hickory
and brass screws with countersunk washers.
You
couldna work out what it had been even if
you
had weeks to watch it scat and drag this way and that
in
the dust as the sky blows the mountain into red cloud
which
flies by in no particular order and quite often comes over
many
times, back and forth, back and forth,
just
for purposes of irritation and an urgent desire to settle.
You
can sit right back and watch
bits
of shit like this blow around.
Maybe
it's part of the old ragtop Buick.
ii
The
mountain seems to want to make its mark.
Which
is not to mention the noise.
These
big old homesteads'll shriek like banshees
as
they fall to bits and draw their guts cross the ground.
Iron
and stone and dead dry wood.
Not
a pretty noise in a wind like this.
Nails.
iii
The
bloke from the wash house has been standing over there
near
that dry tank with his hat on. Gotta
give him his due.
Slept on the wash house floor with his hat on for at least a year
after
the tap dried up. Now he stands over
there
in
the dust beside the dried out tank, holding his hat
on
like that with his other hand in his pocket.
iv
And that
Sylvie's been no good
since
the Rawleigh's traveller bloke perished in the gully.
Her
supply of vanilla ran out.
Loved
her vanilla essence, our Sylvia.
Philip
White
14
Aug 13
 |
| Me at Dad's grave ... for Sylvia's eulogy click here ... photo by Mick Wordley |
 |
| photo by Annie S Boutrieng |
No comments:
Post a Comment