Warrick Wynne’s Poetry Pages

reading, writing and the connections

The Wetlands

It has become one of life’s buried places;
parallel lines,
river and road,
wetlands, levees.
The waters brim dark
brown above our heads,
banks thick with dark mud
like that drenched English landscape
where, after six thousand years,
a man was removed
from the layered peat
with a noose still around his neck,
legs pulled up close to a chest
snuggling under the warm weight
of all that earth.

Here, guard dogs
howled in the distance,
invisible leashes,
the extended horizon.
There was a place
where we stopped
and it is gone.
It is a buried place.
Do you remember the lines?
How straight they were?
The scrappy paddocks
ground like soaked sponge,
the limitless sky
pressing it flat.
You had a puncture,
and we stopped in the cold,
in the flatness below a bank,
on the uncomfortable flat rim,
grey stones sharp as knives.
The wind from a long way away.
Water transporting itself somewhere.
That place is buried now,
the lines that led us there,
under the unendurable earth.
Some things cannot be raised up.

Written by warrick

December 24, 2007 at 4:29 pm

%d bloggers like this: