Eyes At Isa

Dessicated black man
sitting in a dry creek bed
what’s that friggin’ crazy
rhythm ringing in your head?

Springing from the guts of earth
that’s got the metho shakes,
it tells them crazy buggers
dig deeper for their tucker.

Forget the plumes of smelter smoke
spelling dreamtime serpent shapes
across your desert skies –

No suns of future visions
strike the dying sheen
of your setting eyes.

Poor old dusty darky
dragging on your flagon:
What do your forebears care?

Rhythm of tribal feet
shuffled to a stop, dead beat,
many mines ago...

Copyright © Paul Dobbyn Poetry