One
From
London, the thought of Australia hangs
from two pegs on the line, like a scrap
of something melting. Tasmania, the first
drop, a patch of foam from your duty free beer.
You note with alarm that home-coming’s
unsettled your ego – that cut flower.
A barmaid wipes up a thick layer of cloud.
Cradle Mountain’s up close on the wall.
The stink of jet fuel reminds, there’s no stone
left unturned. A bloke with no neck, boasts
of his New Year rock climb backpacks
of tuxes and lots of ‘top dollar’ champagne.
Tasmanian Devils can crunch a cow’s skull
in their jaws. The Governor’s sacked and
gets a big payout. Local colour in colour,
in every hotel room. Port Arthur, wood
chipping and, of course, Trugganini are
debased conversational coin. You’d sneer
at the accent, if it wasn’t so close to your own.
Two
Heathrow.
The thought of Australia
sags from two pegs on the line, like a scrap
of
something melting. Tasmania, the first drop,
falls a patch of foam from your duty free beer.
You
note with alarm homecoming’s unsettled
your ego that cut flower. The steward wipes up
a
thick layer of cloud. Cradle Mountain’s projected
on a shuddering wall. The stink of jet fuel
reminds
you there’s no stone unturned.
The geologist’s legs sprawl into the aisle.
His
I’ll and I’ve it’s a domesticated frontier.
A mountain top picnic with backpacks of tuxes
and
lots of ‘top dollar’ champagne.
Through the bush burning season the sun’s
copper
coloured. You glance at the Mercury.
The State Governor’s sacked and gets a big payout.
It’s
almost like Shakespeare. Tasmanian Devils
that can crunch a sheep’s skull down to meal,
are
becoming endangered. The fox has invaded.
Local colour in colour in every hotel room.
Franklin
River, Port Arthur, poor tired Trugganini...
What is left to say that isn’t a slogan? You’ve been
wood-chipped
before by wedge politics. Promises maiden
broken. As you ease off your shoes, the remote
demonstrates
no flight quite escapes from Iraq.