Tuesday, 17 November 2015
The New World.
Out in the Old West beyond
Before the gangstas, but now.
Paddocks of rye and clover
Tidily fenced with six wires and
One barbed.
Willow in the lows and big night macoracarpa
Along the boundaries.
Pitiless sun.
Through a sharp gap in the dull trees
Two paddocks
One greener than the other
A big black bull stands in his own shadow
The white tip of his tail flicking.
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