Saturday, February 23, 2013


Bitumen blisters,
Sun’s glare ripples the vistas,
Sky scans stone-washed blue.
Roll west down the hill
And the town waits standing still -
Sliding into view.
Some cars whisper by,
Others flash with roar and cry,
And soon they have flown.
The road evens out
Near churches for the devout;
Doors to zones unknown.
Shopfronts seem to weep
As if the town chooses sleep;
None spend money here.
The hotel corner -
Vaguely forlorn like a mourner -
Remnant of old cheer.
The station’s grand
Glimpse of yesterday’s slow hand
Rewards the alert.
Playing fields tell tales -
Tough tackles and falling bails;
Winners never hurt.
The creek winding beige -
Flooded in a long gone age -
Near the honoured dead.
Mountains seal the west,
Some soft curved like a warm breast;
Laced with late sun’s red.

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