Scanning the Horizon

1 Comment

At six-thirty a.m.
I drive the back road
from Shoalhaven Heads to Berry,
winding past Seven Mile Winery,
the bronze-yellow scarring
the ocean's line of horizon,
past the bed and breakfasts,
round the sweeping bend
of Far Meadow,
avoiding the potholes
that like a cancer refuse to be mended,
watching the bleeding sky behind
turn milk-white ahead,
past Rumbles Earthmoving,
the fiery clusters of the coral trees
lining the road,
to the left, towards Nowra,
orange lights of homesteads
marooned deep in the steaming vale,
the mill-smoke drugged and white,
suspended in air,
the near cows like monuments
in the low-level mist
probed here and there
by a scalpel blade of sun,
over Broughton Creek bridge
drowning in its image,
the skin of the water unblemished
but for a solitary duck
cutting a lesion from the farther reeds,
past the old Creamery,
a lone jogger exhaling the vapour
of his smouldering pain,
and over the crossing
to the station: and my three hour train ride
to where the specialist at her city desk
prescribes for me another, unfamiliar
road I'm now on.



submit a comment

Existing comments

You sound very much like the rootin' tootin' Mark Miller with whom I shared a whisky or two and murdered a song or three in the early hours of a crisp July morning close to the rotunda in North Court. If you are so inclined I'd like to continue the conversation before we both go the way of the Leonard ...
Peter Young | 13 November 2016


Subscribe for more stories like this.

Free sign-up