Crank the cycle, come and go - When genesis’ pistol starts the race Of weather beating wheat to grow. Too late to interpret the biblical injunction Never to overpower and conquer, But rather nurture, caress and bestow, As dancers do - tuned by trust and respect. Symbiotic secrets and inner glow, Waltzing and working away in tune. Otherwise - the cycle sweet fails to flow. Collected into community, timber stands true, But when clear felled - friends and hardship will throw Spanners - that hammer the resilient runts Into slant submission. For life. Standing straw not fit for fodder, so No diner’s menu, no drop to drink, Since Tassie’s east is a rain shadow. Light the fire first – then fix the fence, and If the field is not fallow, a roof will follow. Wistfully whip up a wee house to Keep at bay the wolf of a wind. No veranda’s embrace like houses of note, a small shed - no stables, no servant digs. Sluicing for gold across the Bass Strait row Bypassed this bald neck of the woods. But store houses implode when the fuel doesn’t grow. When the cycle cries fowl it’s no time to crow About northern climes left far behind. It’s different - it’s too dense, it’s not deep, it’s Quite beyond a defaulter’s drive. As the last sheep, the last spud and good crop Retires - only grubby grass will grow. Feign the walkers, the fishers and the glampers Ponder freeman’s lament, and kin who have clung on cracked clay, and so - Have gone the way of the wind. Michael Hewson 2018
lightly emplaced 