West Coast, Tasmania (8)

1.

They haunt me still, the derelicts,
Those sad-eyed alcoholic men
Who lost whatever jobs they found
Around the West Coast mining towns.
And I’m drunk in another way,

On poetry that also wrecks
But leaves you richer at the end,
Like one of those old single blokes
Who managed out of frying pans
And saw God on the fire-lit walls.

2.

From hills above Trial Harbour where
I walk hot and bothered by huge
Iridescent blowies evolved
From the cannibal shit of Pearce
And Gabbett flogged raw and thus in

Dire need of salt caked on my face,
Waves hemming, gulls stitching with white
The sweep of Madonna-blue cloak
Look cool. Soul-imperilled by how
The past’s worked itself out in me,

They increase my thirst till I gulp
Air feathery as angels’ wings,
And feel, black sombrero tipped back
To mop up hate sweated, my Hell’s
Gate’s head try the sun on for size.

© Copyright: Graeme Hetherington