And the farmers praise their cattle,
talking in rows of capeweed,
rye grass, thistles.
And the farmers’ children
praise their motorbikes
sliding in file
and fanfares down the bitumen road.
What is the strength now that guides
these tearaway receipts of lives?
What is the praise of the black swan
nestling tiny cygnets
beneath her white-flecked pinions on the dam?
Where is the oath of freedom
that binds each life, and
the tough grasped faith
that comes in on radio waves
and goes out astride a pony?
Where is the peace of our parents’
limitations, as they praise the new hay
and consider the cups of sunlight
they have gathered?
