The big river
rolls past our town
at Hobson’s Bend,
takes a slow look
at the houses on stilts
with timber creaking, paint flaking,
at the graveyard hushed
in the lonely shade,
at the fruit bats
dropping mango pulp
into the undergrowth,
at the foundry, and sawmill
grinding under a blazing sun,
at the pub with welcoming verandahs
shaded in wisteria vine,
at Durra Creek surrendering
to the incessant flow,
at Pearce Swamp upstream
on the creek among the willows
and rivergum,
at the storm clouds
rumbling over Rookwood Hill,
at the two boys
casting a line
on the crumbling bank,
at the cow fields
purple with Paterson’s curse,
at the jammed tree-trunks
washed down after summer thunder,
at the shop
with dead flies in the window display,
at the mosquito mangroves
and the sucking sound of mud crabs,
at the children throwing mulberries
the stain like lipstick.
The big river
rolls past our town,
takes a slow look,
and rolls away.
