WINTER ROAD
Standing in a winter wind waiting for a
late bus seemed a good time to write a poem one day- a good time to
experiment with turning the moment into a metaphor.
WINTER ROAD
The wind-swept sun’s too weak to find
much from its rays as I, beside
car-streams on grey road, stand
around
to catch a late bus to another town.
At traffic lights some way away the cars
are smaller. Catching sun they turn
sun's western glow on metal, glass or chrome
to blazing flashes, dazzling stars.
The never-ending traffic river
as one voice growls- at moments over
I catch the cold, swift southern wind
creating whispers from the leaves
of small gum trees behind me here
before the gray fence hiding houses.
Across the road the bulldozed earth,
once fields for wallabies and horses,
is witness to the ceaseless building
of shopping centres and of dwellings-
a world of concrete and wrong trees.
Then sweeping further I can see
the skyline hills, still partly forest slope,
in bluish distance, giving me
a sensing of the wide world’s scope.
I have no views about this view-
the south-wind with its touch of ice,
the broad horizon’s haze of hills,
the endless traffic and torn earth,
the waiting by this winter road…
except it feels as sense of edges,
of being part and yet apart.
Perhaps my life is winter road.
As years creep on the young man’s gone
and ice is strewn upon my head.
And yet a road is still a road.
And I’m inclined to keep the thought
that there are ever ways to find,
in every place and every season,
a certain poetry of moments.
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