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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