The Woolstore

Hundreds and hundreds,
On their sides almost bursting,
Rounded bases potruding.
Wool bales from across the Monaro.
Merino and Crossbred.

Butts lying open, contents cascade.
The smells of sweat, dung and fleece.
White, cream and yellow piles,
Long and short staples.
The fine and the doggy.
Locks, lambs fleece, pieces and bellies.

Cordained off, the testing equipment.
Bales on rollered benches,
Pierced!
Extracted cores in locked bags.
The forklift,with alarm peeping,
Reverses.
  
 

Wind on the Monaro

The tussocks roll,
Like an invisible hand stroking the soft fur of a puppy,
Or choppy waves on a bay.
It is soothing to watch.
It caresses my eyes.
I can observe insulated in the sanctuary of my warm vehicle.
The stands of trees I pass are another matter,
Ferocious in their calisthenics.
They bend, whip and quake alarmingly.
I prefer to watch the grass.
Then I come upon a gang of White Winged Choughs.
They are on the road, sheltering in a cutting.
As I approach they simultaneously rise in the air.
The blast they meet, causes them to rise slowly,
And make a gentle backwards arc.
Flashes of white break up the black.
They arch their backs unnaturally,
back paddling into the sky.  

On Top of the World

Driving across the Monaro,
I feel like I'm on top of the world.
Scant paddocks of senescing trees and tussock grasses,
Unseasonal  green.
Yet in the distance,
Cloud shrouded mountains.
I peek down over the edge at them.
Wind sweeping emphasises height
And I watch
A long row of turbines on a ridge-top.
Slowly turning.
Not quite in unison.
To my right
A pair of wedgetails circle each other,
In a sensuous dance with the up-drafts.
They appear so close out of my car window.
Yet I know the valley falls away below them.