Late Summer Fires
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.
Les Murray's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Late Summer Fires by Les Murray )
- change in the air, Is It Poetry
- Angel Fingers, Saiom Shriver
- Not Far Off: A New Beginning, M.J Donnchadh
- Closely, Frank Weedings
- Just a dream, Brian J. Stafford
- Monsoon Love, Kelly Zion
- Thanksgiving, ThanhThanh Poet
- My old wet blanket, jaquesha webb
- Thanksgiving, Nhuan LeXuan
- My Soul, Joseph Narusiewicz
Poem of the Day
- 04 Tongues Made Of Glass, Shaun Shane
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- No Man Is An Island, John Donne
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)