Among the murk I will find things to worship
Among the murk I will find things to worship,
the memory dressed up in acrylics, dawn-
haze training scrub on the mountain, bird-exchange
tossed up around them.
That probity will move independently
rocks the river red gum, roots set down below
the salt line, a monoplane grinding the air,
droning tepid clouds.
Christ, downwind, picks up the static, facing us—
offers least resistance; down in the city
we eat with the Buddhists, admire the Jewish
critic in traffic.
Amid she-oaks the Prophet stirs the thornbill,
the galahs cut their jagged about-face flight,
rust and oily residue slick the river,
and yet, deny them!
The old man has lost his farm, moved into town—
huddles in the kitchen, Metters Stove burning
low, rubs the emblem from his tractor’s bonnet,
calling heaven down.