This weekend,
I leaned on fences
watched as cockatoos grew fat
and sleek, and slow

I said, it’s awfully dry,
in fearful tones
and turned my eyes away from
grey and brown
and dead

This weekend, I breathed
the dust of ages
I prodded lazy ironbark
through iron grilles
and into flame

I fried fat sausages
steamed vegetables
and sat beside my father
to hearty fare
and heartfelt conversation

I dug through history
to find future
and skirted
the odd landmine
(love is now a non-real number)

When I drove away from
this weekend,
the dust had cleared
to settle elsewhere

I could see the mountains clearly
up ahead
blue and solemn
dangerous and


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