Outback
The wind blows across
empty cattle yards
and tailing mounds
from old copper mines,
across open spaces
that spread beyond
boundary fences
and the reach
of railway lines,
way out past
the rutted wakes left
by four wheel drives.
Only bones take root
out here and grow
into phantoms
who haunt the horizon,
finding voice in the moans
that wander the land
in search of lost
ancestral homes.
Something ancient
sleeps here
deep underground.
Coiled in a sacred womb
it waits for rebirth.
Beneath the quiet cathedrals
of vaulted nights
you can hear it breathe
through pore holes
rising up out
of the red earth.
Far away,
corralled inside coastal cities,
a nation grows deaf
on the din of its own noise.
Blinded by the dazzle
of unresting lights,
it floats the continent
dangling clots
of shallow roots.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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