From Tasmania

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tyre tracks
graffiti the sand
two summers ago
the footprints
of us




lest we 
forget our roots
the turning of the fagus



grand opening
all the local fellas 
in shorts and thongs




after the bushfire
tracing brushstrokes
on the cold silo




mouth organ cradled
in his woodworked hands
my crazy old man
plays a tune 
for the swallows




walking the old road
headed somewhere
lavender




the setting sun
residents returning
from visiting hours




rocky cape
the eerie silence
of winter
precisely two birds
huddling




muddy vale
cows with names
giddy with happiness




between the marked
and the unmarked
broken headstones




awoken 
by the trap's snap
Pa's stern voice
swearing
at a devil




scribbly gums
the longest days
spent skipping stones