I wandered by malt whisky paddocks,
where Belted Galloways whispered words
of reassurance to the Earth, until I found a
grassy seat between tangled honeysuckle
and blackberry. There, I opened an Atomic Pale Ale,
watched a January storm over yawning gullies
where, two days ago, a tourist with lava inside him
trekked out to find an extinct volcano, then vanished.
For an hour, bruised ranges tossed feverishly
under sheets of sapphire lightning. Between
snarls of electricity, I heard someone shouting my name
where Superb Lyrebirds shimmer like Mardi Gras boys.
First published in Lorne Johnson’s poetry chapbook, “Morton” (Pitt Street Poetry, Australia, 2016).