Sport 29: Spring 2002
The sun's gone down behind Blackstone Hill
and the nearby pines are still. There's
not a breath in the willows by the Ida,
but we don't need a breeze
to confirm that the world's alive
and full of promise, inspiriting.
Dogs bark and snarl, chains rattle;
my neighbour is calling
for a daft black lab called ‘Boy’
to come home Now.
The sky is clear as conscience,
tonally pure, and in the paddock
under the hill, cattle are grunting
as if trying to shove mountains aside.
There has to be beauty
in the land around you
or you can't live there.
And when you think of it
and why you're there,
there has to be room
for kindness and balm,
more pats than kicks
in the arse. You look
at the hills and the sky
and the one is an extension
of the other: all that shapely
shaping going on hour after hour,
minute by minute. Blink
and you'll miss it. Maybe not.
If you like something, pray
that it likes you. If it doesn't,
pray that it won't eat you up.