Writers Abroad II

Tasmanic-Depressive

One

From London, the thought of Australia hangs
from two pegs on the line, like a scrap
of something melting. Tasmania, the first
drop, a patch of foam from your duty free beer.
You note with alarm that home-coming’s
unsettled your ego – that cut flower.
A barmaid wipes up a thick layer of cloud.
Cradle Mountain’s up close on the wall.
The stink of jet fuel reminds, there’s no stone
left unturned.  A bloke with no neck, boasts
of his New Year rock climb backpacks
of tuxes and lots of ‘top dollar’ champagne.
Tasmanian Devils can crunch a cow’s skull
in their jaws. The Governor’s sacked and
gets a big payout. Local colour in colour,
in every hotel room. Port Arthur, wood
chipping and, of course, Trugganini are
debased conversational coin. You’d sneer
at the accent, if it wasn’t so close to your own.

Two

Heathrow. The thought of Australia
sags from two pegs on the line, like a scrap

of something melting. Tasmania, the first drop,
falls  a patch of foam from your duty free beer.

You note with alarm homecoming’s unsettled
your ego  that cut flower. The steward wipes up

a thick layer of cloud. Cradle Mountain’s projected
on a shuddering wall. The stink of jet fuel

reminds you there’s no stone unturned.
The geologist’s legs sprawl into the aisle.

His I’ll and I’ve  it’s a domesticated frontier.
A mountain top picnic with backpacks of tuxes

and lots of ‘top dollar’ champagne.
Through the bush burning season the sun’s

copper coloured. You glance at the Mercury.
The State Governor’s sacked and gets a big payout.

It’s almost like Shakespeare. Tasmanian Devils
that can crunch a sheep’s skull down to meal,

are becoming endangered. The fox has invaded.
Local colour in colour in every hotel room.

Franklin River, Port Arthur, poor tired Trugganini…
What is left to say that isn’t a slogan? You’ve been

wood-chipped before by wedge politics. Promises maiden
broken. As you ease off your shoes, the remote

demonstrates no flight quite escapes from Iraq.