GARFIELD ROAD

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.