Barrabool Hills

The swelling silks of yellow grasses
And gold-white fields of wheat
Sweep down the ever steepening curves
To the flat belly of the land.

Gullies of grey-green bush
Split rounded limbs of worn out ridges,
Veined with blue hints of roads,
Windbreaks, and dark triangles of pines.

The great Dragon’s trail of basalt blisters
Stipples the song line of her rising,
Swimming beneath the crust,
And diving again
Into the magma deep
And in her weathered wake of loam
Satisfied farmers crumble the soil in their hands.