Whistle-stops...
Carriages roll chattering like dentures
over points and sleepers; outside
in the frost are spaces
vast as night, and cut-
glass stars: I saw the Southern
Cross once from a plane, and it
seemed nearer then, pendant in
the firmament where ice meets
fire. A window with a light
accentuates the waste of distances,
finite in the infinite, a small
cry from the heart.
Close by the brick and timber
and scrolled wrought-iron
country stations hang neon signs,
the stations of a cross
whose god is thirst. Men congregate
out of the frosty silences
for solace there, out of a need
for warmth and reassurance
in afflicted times, seeking restitution
for old wrongs, absolved of wordless
crimes. Haunted by the great
Australian loneliness, attracted by
the promise of fluorescent comforts,
beer on tap, companionship, they come
as pilgrims to familiar shrines.
Amethyst with morning, mountains
meet my eyes; the sleek train
hurtles headlong into sunrise.
for my father, Arthur Spurway:
21.01.1909 - 28.06.1992