Five Black Lines
Created | Updated Jan 24, 2009
Up ahead a straight dead tree, another graying crucifix
five black lines a cross brace true, bolted to a treetop.
A giant’s step another tree amongst the rolling spinifex,
some lean and tilt all carry sparks across the Mulga endless.
Swaying in a sneaking breeze, blue black uppers twitching,
five black lines all choc-a-bloc with nervous little creatures.
Light grey lowers grip a branch it swings on horizontal,
on asphalt verge in heats embrace, a roo has lost its features.
Rusty heads move undulating, notched specks in rhythm bound
five black lines above a deck upon this long dead sea. What
cares have they if resting on so many volts in harness. Where
would they rest these little ones if not for trees like these?
A distant blur approaches shimmering, a silver rippled bead
five black lines of eager swallows expectant in their glee.
Wait now upon these cabled branches, swiftness will succeed.
A flashing swish disturbs the air; Slipstream will bring repast
Into the desert air does flow the flies of road-kill past
five black lines of man’s great spark unload in feathered start.
In swoops and dives with graceful flight they gather on the wing
all the buzzing gorging parts of death’s vanguards with wings.
In heightened state of sated flight they settle once again
five black lines, a cross brace true, bolted to a treetop.
Alive with Nature’s little sparks all cast in blackened blue
Stretched out above a desert deck of ochre coloured hue
five black lines a cross brace true, bolted to a treetop.
A giant’s step another tree amongst the rolling spinifex,
some lean and tilt all carry sparks across the Mulga endless.
Swaying in a sneaking breeze, blue black uppers twitching,
five black lines all choc-a-bloc with nervous little creatures.
Light grey lowers grip a branch it swings on horizontal,
on asphalt verge in heats embrace, a roo has lost its features.
Rusty heads move undulating, notched specks in rhythm bound
five black lines above a deck upon this long dead sea. What
cares have they if resting on so many volts in harness. Where
would they rest these little ones if not for trees like these?
A distant blur approaches shimmering, a silver rippled bead
five black lines of eager swallows expectant in their glee.
Wait now upon these cabled branches, swiftness will succeed.
A flashing swish disturbs the air; Slipstream will bring repast
Into the desert air does flow the flies of road-kill past
five black lines of man’s great spark unload in feathered start.
In swoops and dives with graceful flight they gather on the wing
all the buzzing gorging parts of death’s vanguards with wings.
In heightened state of sated flight they settle once again
five black lines, a cross brace true, bolted to a treetop.
Alive with Nature’s little sparks all cast in blackened blue
Stretched out above a desert deck of ochre coloured hue
