by TONY STEVEN WILLIAMS
Those high ridges of red gum, hugging
the Murrumbidgee near Narrandera,
long banished from the rear vision mirror.
An occasional stunted tree stands up,
untidy as an unplucked feather. Wire fences
etch meaningless boundaries
across a carpet of saltbush and grass.
An agoraphobic’s nightmare,
this ancient lakebed, the flattest land
in the Southern Hemisphere, it is said.
The vegetation’s so level it’s easy to imagine
it replaced with water, the waves
of that prehistoric lake slapping gently
over this black road. From the distance,
though, a storm cloud’s closing fast,
a monstrous bully dominating the sky.
Blue-white lightning jags the ground,
curtains of rain throw velvet shadows,
an echoing crack and roll of thunder.
I recall a high-school boy, loud voice,
mesmeric eyes, who knew how to hurt
both body and mind to gain what he wanted.
Now he has mellowed, nuanced, a decent guy.
The bully is still there, though:
that tiny smirk, the soft clench of a fist,
hypnotic eyes. A storm in subtle disguise.
Unlike our amoral Hay Plain friend,
who marries destruction with the gift of rain,
his is a butterfly effect, where nobody
notices the butterfly is no butterfly.
– Western Riverina, NSW