In dust that walks
before the pale drive
of winter on Black Mountain
Beyond cold spidering shadows
where Cotter-River trees are with-holding
their names
In mist whispering
in the margins
of frost at Adaminiby
Up under bogong wings
collected in the granite caves
at Brindabella
I sense my dreaming
And wild pig foraging down-wind
south south-east of Franklin
The brumby kicking at
stars up on Scabby Ridge, where
lichen rock was a cradle
Mallee root nubbed into the fire
and the yarn over red-embers and billy-tea with
condensed milk sweeter than mother’s
And old Dido (grandpa’s labourer since time)
wearing bib and brace
pressing down hard
on tea-softened arrow-root,
his gums and fingers
kneading the kind of tobacco that came in a tin
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