Even words are tinged with autumn
before they drift
over the brown stream's crest -
falling at Gostwyck from a haze
of poplars and golden elms.
Under the bridge
a view of paddocks sloping against
each other and the breeze.
A white horse grazes alone
beneath the flight
of swallows:
as evening
gently surrenders itself
to the murmur of insects in the peace.
On the walls
of the small redstone chapel
vines enclose each other
like arms folded
in prayer or sleep.
Behind it, over the water,
the woolshed's a pyramid
of pioneering years.
I look along the road
joining east to west,
across frames of weatherboard
and galvanized iron,
listening to water whispering non-stop
over stones and nets of weeds -
while in the distance
a man on a motorbike
is rounding up sheep
and a pair
of dogs keeps the stragglers in.
Only the one-lane bridge
is untouched by autumn,
the descent of light
and an aching silence of fallen leaves,
its arch spread like a white rainbow
over the darkening Waters -
echoing like a rattled dice
thrown desperately into the years.
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