Burying Ground

Eucalypts stand like puppet skeletons
shaking green tassels.
Lifted aloft by bony arms Black
Cockatoos offer themselves to the
mouth of a drought wind that sucks up
the ashen soil and sprays it like
a grapeshot scatter
across broken back wheat stubble
collapsing to mulch.


Dragon tail ridges erode slowly.
Embracing a small town laid out in
proper European fashion.
Where the population lies hidden
dressed in Sunday best.


A Wag-tail tells black tales
upon bleached stone.
Revealing the confinement
of past lives.
Blue eyed Crows argue
in the language of sky shadows
at the burying ground.
Where conformity is applied to the
one event we can only dream
of trying to control.

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