Late Summer Fires Poem by Les Murray

Late Summer Fires

Rating: 3.0


The paddocks shave black
with a foam of smoke that stays,
welling out of red-black wounds.

In the white of a drought
this happens. The hardcourt game.
Logs that fume are mostly cattle,

inverted, stubby. Tree stumps are kilns.
Walloped, wiped, hand-pumped,
even this day rolls over, slowly.

At dusk, a family drives sheep
out through the yellow
of the Aboriginal flag.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Peter Stavropoulos 02 July 2007

Imagery rich in atmosphere and statement.

6 1 Reply
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