The old sheds at Tyntynder

On the fringe of a bare, flat, dusty paddock

I roll out my mat on an island of green

and sit cross-legged, upright-backed, gazing

at the river reds that glow and stand

in the way of sunrise.

                            In the middle distance

behind three rough-barked eucalypts

I watch the sloping, crumbling sheds

catch the day’s first

                            splinters of light.

Overgrown, beams protruding like elbows,

walls and memories sliding into the dry

earth and for a few minutes each morning

the iron rooves ablaze like the first fires.