Quail Flat, 1960 by Kerry Popplewell


for Brian

Five of us slept that night on the stone floor
of an old cob hut, close by the Clarence River �
our ears ringing still from the silence
of high screes, our eyes still burning
from hot snow, the bright shimmer of bugloss
and briar rose on the parched valley flats.

When I woke, cold, in that monochrome time
before colour seeps in, I saw you sprawled
quite motionless, eyes closed.

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