Poetry Archives

O wild night of the soul
I clean my lungs with cigarettes

See through a view between the buildings
to the mountains where snow falls quietly.

The last chilled apples harvested are sweet
and the Batlow cider presses work overtime.

Cowra’s Christmas beetles hibernate
like northern bears:

winter’s chill holds the land
the red rock still like a closed hand

above the heart; sheep wake up to dingos.
No invasion, the Country sold out under our feet.