Road to Chinchilla
The road splits the country wide open,
ugly as an axe scar, straight as a spear.
On either side, guards of honour
telegraph poles, with stiff limbed salutes.
The old trails sat peaceably on the surface.
The new trails rattle and thunder and hum.
They’ve hemmed in the country out here
tried to tame it,
with barbed wire fences and iron gates,
using words like ‘mine’ and ‘private’ and ‘keep out’,
words that had no currency here.
The country spills out from under the fences,
poke outs through barbed wire, refuses to be held
It’s trying to tell you it won’t be beaten.
One day, it’ll break out, reclaim its own.