Monday, December 14, 2009

country visit

We drive up through hills sliced fresh and deep

by sharp knives, precision-cut by man.

Wounded clay, gold and grey, like coarse flour,

clings to the hills. It still breathes through the hills’ tissue,

mother all its life.


A few road-stones lie cast in delayed shock.

We drive down through smaller hills. They confront

like plump washerwomen, stilled in scrub and chatter,

clean from rain-wash and sun-bleach,

bellies aproned in patterned shadow.


The flat land invites like a pokerplayer

laying a quick, winning hand, displaying uneven numbers

of gum trees reaching to the horizon,

white cattle and sheep on a dark canvas,

fists of sugar cane, a threading river.


We present gifts and ourselves at the home of friends.

We talk and walk on yellow earth down a creek

where dragonflies write invitations on the creek’s black ink.


Behind our eyes lie the city’s magic.

There we put on new dresses, new shoes,

and think we are princesses.

Nature doesn’t care about dresses, shoes

or princesses.

She says wear what you wish. Just come to me

with a noble and generous mind,

stripped of pretension.


Carolilne Glen ©

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