Beside his heavy-shouldered team
thirsty with drought and chilled with rain,
he weathered all the striding years
till they ran widdershins in his brain:
Till the long solitary tracks
etched deeper with each lurching load
were populous before his eyes,
and fiends and angels used his road.
All the long straining journey grew
a mad apocalyptic dream,
and he old Moses, and the slaves
his suffering and stubborn team.
Then in his evening camp beneath
the half-light pillars of the trees
he filled the steepled cone of night
with shouted prayers and prophecies.
While past the campfire's crimson ring
the star struck darkness cupped him round.
and centuries of cattle-bells
rang with their sweet uneasy sound.
Grass is across the wagon-tracks,
and plough strikes bone beneath the grass,
and vineyards cover all the slopes
where the dead teams were used to pass.
O vine, grow close upon that bone
and hold it with your rooted hand.
The prophet Moses feeds the grape,
and fruitful is the Promised Land.
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Comments about this poem (Bullocky by Judith Wright )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- Night, Apurva Prabhudesai
- MOTHER EARTH SANCTUARY CAFÉ, Suzae Chevalier
- Blazing Temples, Buxton Shippy
- Why Haven't You Spoken Yet, Jake?, Maung Khett Seinn
- snow person, lee fones
- Hanging above the blue, Janet Armstrong
- Truth in Prose, Patrick van der Loos
- Mindless Muddle, alex sarich
- The Autistic Land (Sonnet), Maria Magdalena Biela
- Love is love....., PARTHA SARATHI PAUL