by Allan Padgett

in the paddock outside Tallygaroopna
clearly borrowed its spots from a Dalmatian.
Heading out of town and somewhat out of mind,
a billycan boiling by the roadside –
a man who 60 years ago might have been called a Swaggie,
perched nearby on a long dead sawn-off log, gathering
an oiled-up coat about his shoulders to ward off an advancing wind
which feels like it had its origins in Antarctica,
held to eventual thawing by roaring, crackling fire.
Going from farmer’s door to farmer’s door seeking
sustenance, work and conversation.
Don’t we all.

Billy Buttons rearing yellow-headed, grace these numerous backroads;
they spear into a middle Spring’s sky shared by slanting sunbeams
and rollicking cirrus. This species occupies merely a tiny fragment
of its former distribution as roadsides get bullied by graders into fire-
retarding nudity. Where is the sense in this ceaseless destruction.
Just as well some inner city greenies – born long before the term
was invented – gathered plants from country roadsides and planted
them in the tiny front gardens of Drummond Street in North Carlton –
along with petunias and, regrettably, Southern Blue Gums.
The former scattered sweet scents into the nostrils of passersby,
the latter grew unstoppably into 30 metre giants
that bent into guttering and tore adjacent footpaths to shreds.
The Billy Buttons flourished, shining brightly into blighted urban lives.

Thus are lessons learnt.
Thus does the world go round.
Thus does the sun rise on most of these unearthly days.