At the back side of a dead shed

all I see around here now

in the half dark pink glint

are bowed flat beds and diesel

drums sunken in dry earth.

I still can’t resist a good

tin thump, hammering 

for the beat of here.

The black pool shivers

as I look into its mozzie heart

the larvae curling under 

a metallic rainbow 

of spent sheep dip and oil.

In shadows that won’t leave 

their owners, I cannot look away 

from the roil of a thing 

that is living but only just 

a slight shimmer in the dark. 

It is good to see something still

multiplies here in the sweet musk

like a pulse without a body

in long quiet cattle yards stiff 

with the scoops of hooves.

I wonder how the threat of summer

hasn’t taken all of these places. 

I wonder if I can still find ground 

damp enough to waterlog skin.

The tractors have turned to powder 

and the farm gates leave lanolin

and rust along my palms. 

A fire came through here in ‘85

and things have never unbent.

I remember I used to sit 

and just let this happen - 

gorse slink through wood piles 

drip light and the wait for rain. 

The ash doesn’t blow on a breeze 

and the farmers have stopped

rewilding their utes 

as snakes coil tight whips 

and grass heads tock-tock-tock 

until the dusk isn’t here anymore.