By James Walton
She told me
my hips could carve ham,
a girl I loved
dead early on a Sunday morning,
a car in a suburban chance roll
over the edge of Hailes Street.
Langy knows we still blame him.
His life of laying bricks
the string line’s quiver
a darting mouse,
the memory of water in hay
fleeting scent of flax.
He’s mixed only cordial
these foundation decades,
head too small for the mullet
drooping Frank Zappa grey.
Doesn’t look a soul in the eyes,
mortar can’t fill deep fissure.
James Walton is an Australian poet published in many journals, newspapers, and anthologies. He lives in far South Gippsland, in an isolated farming community.