3. camberwell
I’ve been to wendy bowman’s farm
crushing wet wildflowers
and touching the proud face
of a pregnant cow
hearing the burst of a stream
below and the soft touch of her
feet to the lucerne
inhale a fly here and there
spit into the soil
and I stand quietly on
uneven feet while wendy and
mum and dad talk about the
encroaching mines
I am a child but still
I understand the anger in
her strong forehead, in the
frantic sway of her gesturing
this is real land, this is
alive and we can touch
and taste and
produce from its breath
and its heat, from all sides
the mine comes
like a storm closing in
she will not be swept away
again