The way each hill runs down
The way tree-lines suspend the turbulence
My father’s arms are in these hills
taking timber from the gully
The crest of his hat starts at the waterfall
his toes peep through lantana
His advice trickles into pools from the hollows;
as his boots peeled open, dry before the fire
Lizards bask like heat-curled nails in the sun,
billy smoke whispers its tale through the canopy
Through the slow step of a century
he has turned one-eyed squinting toward the sun
The scrape of sharpening-stone on an ancient scythe
sets my teeth on edge
The whistle to the bullock team calls me back
but it’s too late, my ears have gathered for another harvest
I'm already removed from his wilderness
MChallis © 2005
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
The way each hill runs down
The way tree-lines suspend the turbulence
My father’s arms are in these hills
taking timber from the gully
The crest of his hat starts at the waterfall
his toes peep through lantana
His advice trickles into pools from the hollows;
as his boots peeled open, dry before the fire
Lizards bask like heat-curled nails in the sun,
billy smoke whispers its tale through the canopy
Through the slow step of a century
he has turned one-eyed squinting toward the sun
The scrape of sharpening-stone on an ancient scythe
sets my teeth on edge
The whistle to the bullock team calls me back
but it’s too late, my ears have gathered for another harvest
I'm already removed from his wilderness
MChallis © 2005
Request permission to use this poem