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THE SHALLOW GRAVE
A sun simmered cast, in the Mitchell grass,
Craved the seascape in the West.
Webbed rivers ran, through desert land,
Where three young black girls wept.
Along the plain, they wept for shame,
At the carcass eroding in the sand.
They cursed the wind, they cursed the rain,
The syringe in their dead friend's hand.
They remembered warm night, diminishing whites,
The productive laughter around them.
Then the grisly end, of their day old dead friend,
And the way the ants had found him.
The wind had eroded, rain had exploded,
Droplets had torn the skin on the face.
They wished for the shame, to dry up like the rain,
They wished for the smile on a dead thing's face.
The storm had seen, the rain had been,
And had washed the brown land's bloody stain.
But still in the sand, the black groping hand,
That had grasped for a heartbeat in vain.
Spinifex needles had crept, grey stubble had leapt,
Along the sprouting cheek of the West.
Like a cruel old man, stale butt in hand,
A sugared sunset giggled in jest. |
