BOGONG POETRY PAGES


THE LAST DAY

A swallow sang on that last day,
a sound so clear and high
it rang
the wide, pale bell of the sky,
a last, sweet knell
for all that had passed
and all that was about to die.
A cool breeze, an autumn change,
melancholic relief from summer's
exhausting, frenzied heat,
clearing the empty pavements of
the curled, brown leaves and sighing,
whispering free,
through fields of unfettered, flaxen grass,
weed strewn yards,
Municipal gardens and along
the deserted, four lane highway;
cracked and pot-holed tarmac,
that still led into town.

By the old hotel, a crowd of friendly strangers
gathering briefly under shedding trees,
touching, unspoken last farewells, soft,
transient as the falling leaves
swirling above in a turning wind.
Few tears, regrets, these abandoned last,
witness to this final, fatel day,
unhappy hostages to all history.
Quietly, they walk, arm in arm,
up Memorial Mound,
beyond silent, city streets,
up to stone cold monument to nothing very much,
there to wait, reluctant,
a World's end to meet,
a pitiless star's fiery coming yet to greet.

Perhaps did the lumbering dinosaurs stand,
on elephantine feet,
in swampy dells,
sun familier warm upon cracked hides,
watching the fluxing evening of their collective lives
echo in a thunderous, fearsome sky.
Watching the blind, fiery,
Prophet of Doom cauterising
their humid heavens, like a bloodied scyth,
wounding the delicate, souless,
balance of their Primeval World.
Shattering the fragile strands of life,
obliterating their weighty trace for all eternity,
a ghostly shadow of their passing
in weathering bones of stone,
lying mute in a granite tomb.

So also we stand and hopeless stare,
our Tribal hopes lie bleeding,
our senses flayed bare,
tasting the colours of destruction,
feeling the drum beat of Universal chaos
ripping through chilled, autumn air.
While above, in unpetrified, still-life trees
dead birds still sang
and worms, mindless,
still gnawed at tender root under succumbing soil
and unflagellated fish wait to
broil in their havenless ocean.
Agonized torment
makes the earth ripple and seethe,
bubbling up the cast-off bones
in all the lonely, scattered graveyards,
clean, white skulls screaming
bitter, voiceless lament
for all the vanished, undead Children.
In this do you perceive the hand of God?

Virgo

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