Michael Hall

New Doubtland

I used to wear childhood
as if it was 1979,
uncertainty hanging awkwardly
like a small yellow raincoat
from the cloak room hook;
a mini series about the Holocaust
was on TV; music had gone disco;
the decade like the sky dripping
onto the wooden floor.
I wrote a story about our futures.
I wrote that some days the clouds
wore dark aprons across the plain
like farmers, standing at evening, hosing
down the emptied yards, dreaming
they were loose forwards in the rain.
I wrote that the sheds
looked like distant solar systems. I wrote
that I dreamt our hearts would descend
like spaceships in the dark.

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