Nimmitabel

you know…

that tiny town

with the giant concrete elephant

in the bakery garden.

it’s in the mountain country

between the moonscape

and the escarpment.

hell yeah.

it’s built for poets

with a retired general store

and that old pub with the arched stable entrance

where you can almost hear the jingle

of century-old traces.

The elephant is all dressed up

for a ceremony of some sort

and he waits patiently there

beside a circle of bricks

that might’ve once been a well.

There’s a picnic table

but it’s too cold

and we take our own lunch these days

saving our pennies

and avoiding people.

Down the road, by the little lake

there’s a man with an SUV

making coffee on a primus stove

on his back gate.

His number plates are WA plates.

In this strange world

he holds more interest for me

than usual. I imagine him

living a periphery life on the road

edging past towns

camping near fences…

of no fixed address.

As coolly at home

as the elephant.