To get there
you must first cross the moon
cratered and stony
with odd relief
in skeletal trees
or the white gleam
of a disused lime quarry.
The clouds are exotic
with so much space
in which to express themselves
and the lighting
is dramatically
sideways.
And then suddenly
it’s greener
and softer
and the post-rain-rivulets
reflect blue sky
and the busy yards
of homesteads.
The road narrows
and turns to dirt
and I wonder if puddle
was originally pothole
spoken lazily.
pothole. pottle. poddle. puddle.
It’s not such a stretch.
Over a bridge,
past a grove of nondescript gums
and there’s the gate
as bland as any farm gate
except for the massive
puddle beside it,
always creak-full of frogs.
