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2. SHE OAKS IN THE GREY MIST WERE ROARING LIKE TRAINS
the she-oaks in the grey mist were roaring like trains,
on a still day, they will pick up the slightest breeze,
the land is talking, a train approaching from all directions,
she-oaks, a few left standing in a grey winter field,
if you stand long enough to listen to the roar,
a paddock of she-oaks on the way to deniliquin,
dirty grey bark and when there were trees on the land,
many she-oaks and grey box and dry sclerophyll forest,
there would have been many levels of roaring,
liberate yourself by walking in a paddock off the highway
past the crown land and stock route, keep going in order to die,
the she-oaks are out there, talking to each other,
beyond recognition, the mist rain gently hanging, filtering,
to the point of saturation, dropping down through them,
the large black ants are wriggling slowly, hiding in their holes,
are clicking their iron bodies, brassy antennas and legs,
deep in timelessness, red holes in the red dirt,
listen to wind roaring through the victorian she-oaks,
like a train approaching from all directions,
while you remain in awe of the cold and directionless,
the distance is helping you along, off the cobb hwy
away from your vehicle, into paddocks of roaring she-oaks,
sending you further in, upon your strange watery approach |
