The Country Passing

This poem was written feb 07 - so close to 2 years ago.
I don't know (the space between the urge and the result)
it seems to me it is about escape.

a common enough dream for a proletarian.

---

She would often ride a bus. From Eden
Across the land to St George. Away the demands
Of life away the demands of work of family.
It allows me time to read. Time to alone think.
Cold coffee brewed days ago. Bitterbrown oiled.
Over dry gullies. Virginia Wolfe spoke of her
Well heeled friends needing a room of their own.
I must have a bus of my own. She chuckled
Silent. Uncomfortable seats. Over dry grass
Gullies, Cabbage Tree Road, Alligator Creek.
Always clinging ironrust orange dirt
Countless footsteps across airygray mountains
Tangled every shade of green imaginable.


Maybe this journey will see Spinoza read.
Over thin gullydustred bones of animals.
And back home again Eden with the Southern
Oceans Upwelling. Whales breeching. Embracing love.


Bah, these poets these days - they know nothing
And they feel even less. Pitiful examples they are.
Falsespouted words, useless in this age of history.
They dreamhope to fly over the sun.
The sun that softens the wax.
The sun that hardens the clay.