The Unintended
Farm scene near my home, Clarence Valley, NSW - Australia. Land of the Yaegl people.
On and beyond our river island home there are networks of narrow country lanes weaving amongst cane fields and paddocks on the flood plain of the Clarence River. I cycle these rural byways in the early morning before the heat sets in, as much to see things as to exercise. My poem “Woodford Island” tells that story, though I published it here soon after arriving on Substack so the poem has had very few readers.
On a 40 km (25 mile) ride I might see only 3 or 4 vehicles, and on the quieter lanes none. What I do see are birds, wetlands alive with water lilies, occasional kangaroos, snakes and lizards, and miniature freshwater turtles laboriously crossing roads (I always stop and assist - even though cars are few - because the turtles are so gorgeous, and so sloooooow; they can’t dodge a car).
I also see the farms ….
The Unintended
I could say that the sky
was that imbecile blue
you sometimes get
on the cusp of Summer, bereft
of the language of clouds;
pleading innocence -
eye interrogated
but telling you nothing.
You might realise the dried blood
red of the roofing iron - rust
encrusted, haemoglobined
with neglect. This disconnect
of current form and function
speaks of what happened here -
economic road kill -
the silence a hint, a clue.
Or you can do what I did - briefly pausing
to view the unintended eloquence of age -
gravity clasped, sun saturated, unharnessed
from all the harried demands of utility - not
decomposing but rather, recalibrating,
becoming what was always meant to be;
bleached wood, peeling paint, iron oxide
and all the inner colours shining through.
It was not really my intention to stay on Substack - I started as an experiment - but the many wonderful readers and writers I meet here, and the comments and conversations, have enriched my life. My thanks to all. If you enjoyed this please consider Subscribing for more. You don’t have to pay anything but a few minutes of your attention. Best Wishes - Dave :)
I know these old farms, buildings caving in, giving way to what will come next. On our farm, my father's farm, the old barn is hanging on. My father has cared for it over the years, but other buildings have collapsed and been removed. They are like people, even the best of us must eventually fall in on ourselves and return to the earth......but actually, what I just wrote isn't so. Most of the buildings I remember are intact, even the old chicken coop where I used to play with the chickens. And the old "garage" building, and the corn crib. Really, it's amazing. So....some of us last longer than others. And I'm never quite sure how I feel when I see and old barn falling in.......probably because I've seen far too many old houses falling in. Still do in fact.
Hi Dave,
Excuse the brief comment as I rush through trying to catch up. “bleached wood, peeling paint, iron oxide”, that’s basically a list of my favourite photographic subjects. A wonderful poem, mate, thanks for sharing.
UK Dave