by J.S. Harry

​

under the rim, 4000 feet,

going down

towards ranger valley lying low

lost blue as a myth of bushrangers

between green

hard-to-ride-over hills,

a kangaroo went up the

nearest slope, to brush,

away

from us

 

he stopt

on a rock

posed side on, halfway up,

large, his tail

-fur outlined black –

looking back

 

at the ute     to see

what we

were     what had

become of us

objects     there

at the feeding

hour     amid cattle

stopt     towards him     looking up

 

below

on the valley floor

above last night’s

rainfresh green grass, late

mountain summer’s yellow daisyflowers,

green and yellow grasshoppers

rose upwards     by wing

flowers moving dreamlike

from their stalks