The Glasshouse Mountains by John Foulcher

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The freeway

is riddled with cars.

At every exit, the new estates

cluster among ruins

of rainforest:

houses spread like fungus

down the thick grey trunks

of streets, fallen

everywhere. Video shops.

Clubs. Supermarkets,

white-anted

with trolleys. A golf course

gashes the hill’s flank.

The pineapple plantations,

sharp and brittle—how

they seem to itch

in the furrowed dirt.

And above, worn away

from an older crust,

the Glasshouse Mountains leap

across the dying plain,

the sun carving shadows

from their tall storeys;

they lift like voices,

their hard volcanic echoes

heard faintly, all along the coast.

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