for P

The flood closed the shop so we had the weekend.
On his GS1000 we were flying

— Brookton, Beverley, Corrigin —

…………………………………………………the wheat
a rich ripe monotony, arrow-straight roads,
figures in fields staring, silo towns

— Hoddy’s Well, Clackline, Lake Grace, Hyden —

rail-heads fled as the bike split earth and sky
roaring.

…………..Years later I heard: how he’d gone…a bus
…dragged…face down…the road…until…

but we were young men talking wild: women,
the stars, vast armies marching headlong
into the river of the dead, how we’d forget
once the great thing ahead of us began. Restless
there at the lip, waiting our destiny.

I woke early: the arms of the zodiac,
the rock. He was up already pacing the sun.

Image: Wave rock, Western Australia, c/- Wikimedia and here’s Arvo Pärt’s Fratres