Poems by Rosalind McFarlane
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Elster Creek, Elwood
We talk over old swamp, concrete plain only ramrod straight, middle channel squared like diamonds, or family monthly planners. Fences tight against the dry weather. Golf course breaks into stream’s dribble. Water pipes such a rush next door. Later grass and sedges wound your edges. Still no swamp. So much concrete drained you, dredges up guts until you could be straightened. Such a pest, so much disease, dumped accusations in your wake. Channelled growth into relate estate sectors, still you tried to float for many years, finally concrete anchored to government expectations – deep base to stunt your spread. Dumping your only companion. Seaweed wades up on the annual high tide. Spreading itself through the water clear scent across the bay. Turn Right Around the Corner The name is always too soon: posted up the road to announce park undercut by leash laws supervision requirements and desired footwear. Entrances are slow: pram heavy or back packed fit between houses and a little concrete path. Once you are grass streaked the sky is an open mouth clouds stretched tight – an entire sheet grey flannelette and lint balling. Downhill are the drains. Under path rectangular openings doubled too: swamp went to stick grass + wet nosed moss channels + dry lips peelings back + stale air + swallowed tennis balls. Your drainage complete swamp leanings. Cracks meander concrete, no potential soggy dreams quite sidelined. Childhood enclosures and weekend sport safe for another Saturday rising (or sinking). No swamp will tell. |
Rosalind McFarlane writes both critical and creative works that engage with ideas of place, especially depictions of water. She is currently Commissioning Editor (collaborations) at Cordite Poetry Review and works with international students at Monash University. She has been published in the Contemporary Australian Feminist Poetry anthology as well as various other journals.
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