The road splits the country wide open,
ugly as an axe scar, straight as a spear.
On either side, guards of honour,
telegraph poles with stiff limbed salutes.
The old trails sat peaceably on the surface.
The new trails rattle and thunder and hum.
They’ve hemmed in the country out here
tried to tame it,
with barbed wire fences and iron gates,
usings words like ‘mine’ and ‘private’ and ‘keep out’,
words which had no currency here.
Country spills out from under the fences,
pokes outs through barbed wire, refuses to be held.
It’s trying to tell you it won’t be beaten.
One day, it’ll break out, reclaim its own.