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A Farmer's Night
The cottage stands alone,
verandah posts askew,
the hand-sawn walls buckled
At its heart is a coal-range
Its wooden floor is shiny with wear
The old farmer comes in alone
He fills the range with sticks,
his gut with liquor
There is no food
No music
No wife
The heat trickles out[;
he listens to the night -
the wind in the grass,
the swoop of a bird.
He hears his dogs, too,
stretching the chain
The cold falls
verandah posts askew,
the hand-sawn walls buckled
At its heart is a coal-range
Its wooden floor is shiny with wear
The old farmer comes in alone
He fills the range with sticks,
his gut with liquor
There is no food
No music
No wife
The heat trickles out[;
he listens to the night -
the wind in the grass,
the swoop of a bird.
He hears his dogs, too,
stretching the chain
The cold falls
Published 2nd Jul 2019
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