A NAME AND A SEASON
Think of an aged politician,
scuttling through corridors,
winding soon to death.
And a city, on the dark side of the world,
corroding river, trees and people,
named after him.
There hard – edged men,
shed them from the stony flanks of a harsh land,
glare straight and far ahead,
impatient to launch across the distant ranges
a vast, grey, bleating army.
So the place is branded with a cringing name,
and trees bronzed as lifesavers now parade streets
that smother fat eels and flowering manna gums.
Dead leaves scuttle
where soft fern fronds silently unfurled
and autumn’s dry death – rattle sounds
where wombats grazed and lyrebirds danced.
Only Lo – an Tuka, the Hunter, unknown,
gleams still at day’s dark edge.
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