The poem
The paddocks shave black with a foam of smoke that stays, welling out of red-black wounds.
In the white of a drought this happens. The hardcourt game. Logs that fume are mostly cattle,
inverted, stubby. Tree stumps are kilns. Walloped, wiped, hand-pumped, even this day rolls over, slowly.
At dusk, a family drives sheep out through the yellow of the Aboriginal flag.