The way each hill runs down
the way tree lines suspend the turbulence


My father’s arms are in these hills
taking timber from the gully


The crest of his hat starts at the waterfall
his toes peep through lantana


His advice trickles into pools from the hollows;
his boots peeled open, dry before the fire


Lizards bask like heat-curled nails in the sun,
billy smoke whispers its tale through the canopy


Through the slow step of a century
he has turned one-eyed squinting toward the sun


The scrape of sharpening-stone on an ancient scythe
sets my teeth on edge


The whistle to the bullock team calls me back
but it’s too late, my ears have gathered for another harvest

I am already removed from his wilderness.