John Kinsella

ESP in the Wheatbelt

Seasonal as once their coming here
was loss or bliss or change of scenery,
such draperies or oil on foundered iron,
pot shots at dawn, or prayers
said in pepper trees or halfway
down a well, or the glass
wandering across the board, names
spelt out through fog, twitching
branches of gravel-pit fires,
wash-away paddocks a semi-landslide
on gentle slopes, yet carrying
enough “externalisation of the senses”
to make palaver of the emotions;
cross-country she cried in recesses,
beneath sole trees in cleared spaces,
among stepped bricks of broken
and robbed houses, seeing nothing,
hearing nothing, tasting nothing,
smelling nothing, feeling nothing,
and yet the rush of dirt and blood
and the mercury dropping
below horizons, crowding
off lost or fading relatives,
hurt and pleasured and enlivened
runs and furrows, the wet ‘n’ dry
of a contra-spectrum, disk plough
scoring black out of white quartz agglomerations,
sub-currents sprung up like whispering
circuit boards, a wattle and daub
of storylines as resonant
as the hot kitchen, ink welling
out of the cracks in the bureau.