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.

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