David Nourse

The Bushland Capital Burns
-- Canberra, 18 January 2003 --

Grimy clouds combine to throw
a dirty quilt across the city,
with grey sheets dangling underneath
woven of a choking mist
of smoke and ashes, burnt pine tar
that claws at eyes and nostrils,
tries to tear the membranes
from our throats.

Before our house nine ghostly horses
part the mist, emerge piecemeal
and coalesce to rest and graze
upon the playing fields.

The sun, a dying traffic light
high in a darkening sky,
glows red but ever dimmer,
sinks fast into blackness --
silent night in day.

Banshee wails of sirens
break the silence,
blackness flowers
with orange blossoms --
burning suburbs.

After My Throat Was Cut With All Due Care

And on the third day I arose,
dragged up from painful rest
to stagger on a hard white road,
under harsh suns in a world
that seemed far distant from my own,
the ward a small and silent space,
square, flat and patterned
like some figure from geometry,
as sterile as that science

And on the third day I arose,
firmly gripped on either side,
hauled upright like so much meat,
striving to escape to world outside
with one warm sun and room to move,
sharp sounds and colours,
fresh breezes and a changing clime

And on the third day I arose
to find my solid-seeming legs
withdraw support, appearing real
and yet not there
save in sensation

And on the third day I arose
to meet the cold white floor,
feed its parched surface
with my tears.

I did not rise again.

The Twenty-Five Year Backyard Blitz

Backyards were big in Broken Hill
where I grew up -- half-acre blocks
of fine red dirt that flew into a choking cloud
every time the hot north wind barged in
to drop a fresh supply of flies.

This grit could grind and claw its way
through every microscopic crack,
through tight-closed doors and windows,
under eaves, even through the corrugated iron
of walls and roof, and make our house
a dustbowl overnight --
and so my Dad set out to tame the desert,
reclaim the land for living.

He was built for the fight: a barrel-chested
heavy-handed bloke of compact height
and solid stance with weighty limbs
and scars of war, fine lines
across the brow where rival bulls
had tried to split his thick young skull
in stony wastes that passed for parks.

War service helped him plan
a long campaign:
first build a path of hand-mixed concrete
to lay the dust between the kitchen door
and wilder parts beneath the clothesline

then take a leaf from Bible lands
and raise a shady space to cool the house,
a canopy of hardy vines whose grapes
would make the world's worst wine
that only he could drink.

He spent a solid year or four
cementing his supply lines,
laid yards of drains in bone-dry soil,
poured tons of concrete bricks
by hand, piled them into fences first,
then stands that nested red-back spiders
nicely; they also carried
water tanks, to supplement
the mineral-laden liquid gold
our grasping local council sold
in lieu of water.

Next stage: he grasped a battered spade,
planted such trees as seemed good
for fruit and cover, better far
than farming prickles --
oranges, lemons, figs and almonds,
peaches, apricots, grapefruit, pears...

His chosen species throve
in close-packed groves,
stunted perhaps, slow-growing,
but sturdy as the man himself.

And when a patch of straggly lawn,
the Grail of local gardeners,
grew amid the yard at last,
like a stubborn weed at war
with herbicides on every flank,
and covered twelve square
yards of desert dirt,

Dad smiled, and saw
that it was good.

The Photograph

Today I sent a friend,
Far distant from these shores,
A photo of myself.

The camera caught an ageing, battered man
Held captive in a wheelchair,
His grizzled hair and beard
Sparse-stubbled, like a wheatfield
Deep in drought.

They say the camera never lies, but this one did:
I'm not that man.

No -- just as in my early years
I'm striving still to cross the mountain range
That stretches out before me.

These are no snowy ramparts,
No pretty peaks for postcards,
Not in this old land;
I scramble through a chiselled maze
Of crests and valleys,
Sharp escarpments cloaked in grey
By gloom-filled forests.

My crumpled, sweat-stained map says
"Here Be Dragons" -- well, not quite;
No well-armed hero's set a foot
In this drab place
Abounding in dead ends.
I have found not a few of them...

And yet I do continue:
For often there are days of light
When the path atop the ridges
Stands out clear,
The mists disperse,
And I can see for miles.