By Lorne Johnson


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).

Photo by Larm Rmah on Unsplash