Gibb River Station
In tropical heat, multilingual birds sing
in high branches, dry leaves rattle on
a sunburnt land. Brahmin bulls dust-up
as thirst and hunger bite deep. Red cloud
rises but the stockmen are in town to drink.
Home alone, old law lady lies abed,
Dreamtime stories and language in her head.
I leave my desk to exercise and think.
The Kimberley broadcasts its text in sun
and shadow-puppet play, outcrop and gorge,
red dirt polyglossia of crow claw,
goanna print, roo paw and grader wheels.
On the track, Benjamin heightens my tongue:
_translation marks their stage of continued life._
All criticisms welcome. It is a draft and I expect to change it. I
would therefore like some feedback >g< I meant to write a hip,
urbane, smooth-talking contemporary sonnet - but the surroundings got
the better of me. I certainly didn't intend to rhyme, or at best,
half-rhyme, but me and my Muse don't always see eye-to-eye.
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/aburke/
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