back inside the property, a decay brought by seasons;
paddocks eaten into harvest are still,
brown soil dreams of green, aged stalks swinging
from the earth, beaming out of charred yellow wounds,
old structures: plump as berries on the land,
stand in place.
a weary farmer walks two greyhounds
down an alleyway, halting
to piss beneath a silo,
his folded eye stretching borderlines from the shade.
today comes a vision stuffed into silent growth;
farmlands in development have met the city,
Woodstock, masked, breathes from her sleep
pushing smoke down a busy asphalt road

from Rain Season (2013)

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2 thoughts on “Woodstock

  1. I love this poem, Robbie. Its mellow, dream-like pacing drew me into the heavy, slow-motion landscape. Then the incongruity of timelessness meets busyness in the lasts lines was lovely. Thanks for sharing; I might just have to get the book I think!

    1. Thank you so much, Michelle! Your kind words mean very much to me.
      This poem is very close to me and where I come from, im so glad to hear it resonated with you!

      Robbie

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