‘Bunyah has been my refuge and home place all my life. This book concentrates on the smallest habitats of community, the scattered village and the lone house, where space makes the isolated dwelling into an illusory distant city ruled by its family and their laws.’ —Les Murray

 

February: Feb

 

Seedy drytime Feb,

lightning between its teeth,

all its plants pot-bound.

 

Inside enamelled rims

dams shrink their mirroring shields,

baking the waterlilies.

 

Days stacked like clay pigeons

squeezed from dust and sweat.

Two cultures: sun and shade.

 

Days dazed with actuality

like a bottle shot

sniping fruit off twigs,

 

by afternoon, portentous

with whole cloud-Atlantics

that rain fifteen drops.

 

Beetroot and iron butter,

bread staled by the fan,

cold chook: that’s lunch with Feb.

 

 

Being Spared the Inquests

 

A toddler’s scream –

the upward strike of a dingo,

the boy’s father running

with shouts and shovel blade.

 

The valley came this close

to a deadly later fame.