None So Raw As This Our Land - Poem by Andrew Burke
for Mary Maclean
Many have been more exotic places, but this
you offer us, a taste of our land. The air
so crisp with chill we wear entire wardrobes
like hunters' furs - jeans over track pants,
footy socks, beanies, scarves. Mary's roo dog
does our hunting: an emu caught by the throat,
plucked and thrown whole on a cooking fire,
smoke full of singed feathers and flesh
stings our noses. We wrestle with tin-canned
standards in words the wind blows away. Huddled
'round campfires morning and night, we go where
the sun breaks through as day unrolls. Breakaways,
mulga bush, a never-used dam a hundred years old;
this place of bleached bones and broken glass
queries our presence, unwashed, awkward on
its unpaved ways. Marrakesch, Kathmandu - tales
of former hikes, but none so raw as this our land.
Whose land? Our week is up; we take away
film rolls, rusted horse shoes, and ochre rocks.
Comments about None So Raw As This Our Land by Andrew Burke
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.