My Heart’s Country

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.

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