FARM LIFE
This poem is dedicated to all those killed or affected by the tragic bush fires.
Three pregnant ewes.
Silent.
Cows aplenty all in a row,
Farm hand in bed, wine on the nightstand.
Newborn child beginning to crow.
The faintest sound of the local jazz band
Saxophone muffled by a chorus of leaves,
Dancing. Crackling. Burning with song.
Trunks and willow and the red ash eaves,
Water. Blankets. We don't have long.
Max is barking but holding steadfast,
Loyal gatekeeper, patrolling the halls.
It isn't his first but it might be his last,
He bounds away to distant calls.
Out the back gate and into the car,
Anonymous plumes surround,
Wind's pushing North, follow that star.
From the back seat:
"Mum, will Max be found?"
Wheat fields aplenty, food winter stash.
Cereal, bread and Weet Bix with honey,
A hungry winter for you cannot eat ash.
Nor buy any milk without any money.
All my life I've lived on a farm,
Brand bulls, slash grass and shoot foxes.
In front of my family i'd like to be calm,
But i'm not prepared for living out of boxes.
