In the Douglas Valley

New moon on a clear night
in November does not bleach
glass to silver, but settles darkness
here, where the two-train railway
that runs through the valley
bisects the sealed
road that collapsed its steel vein.
In a fuller moonlight
neat silver might belly the clouds,
gild slips where wet
surfaces mirror the sky, maybe.
The creeks, cleared
here to drain the swamps, could
enmesh the ground in thin light
while the trees anchor themselves
each to their own impermeable
thicket of shadow.
In the full moon’s hard light,
rails and water would shine,
rain be a glistening afterthought — but
under cover of new moon,
pulling up, the tracks
twist themselves out of the ground
into such shapes
of metallic logic as
no human mind could bear.

More Poetry:
Johanna Aitchison | Michele Amas | Andy Armitage | Hinemoana Baker | Jenny Bornholdt | Amy Brown | Medb Charleton | Mary Cresswell | Lynn Davidson | Emily Dobson | Jane Gardner | David Geary | Mariana Isara | Anna Jackson | Andrew Johnston | Anne Kennedy | Brent Kininmont | Saradha Koirala | Therese Lloyd | Dora Malech | Kelly Malone | Sam Reed | Erin Scudder | Kerrin P Sharpe | Elizabeth Smither | Louise Wareham Leonard | Alison Wong | Sue Wootton | Ashleigh Young