after the march
the scent of rosemary
blends with beer . . .
‘come in spinner’ shouts
from the two-up circle
another red dawn
bleeds across eastern sky . . .
the old grazier
escapes sweat-damp sheets
in his search for clouds
on a palette
he squeezes daubs of colour
facing the canvas
he allows his brush to find
the blue of Gippsland hills
somewhere
on the outskirts of night
I let thoughts
of you drift in dawn sky
beyond the waking hills