Frost wrote
of good neighbours and of course,
he was right
and of course, he was wrong.
At least
in this hemisphere, for none would last very long
without the open-handed,
eyes folded 'gainst the debilitating sun,
that lifelong shrug of acclimatised-eyelid protection
that marks an outback
denizen of Oz, the son or daughter
of cobber-can-do
who mocks all paltry inclination t'wards compensation -
the mates
beyond barbed wire fence. The ones
who come
when there's fire, flood, famine or other
tragedy, besides.
~
Perhaps, I project, perhaps I intuit imperfectly,
p'rhaps I'm guilty of sentiment,
the sediment that bogs objective observation
and anthropological reason and yet,
I suspect, Frost
also felt
an ironic, self-deprecating mock-admiration
a possibly cheesy,
cheddary perception of chalk for was he not,
an outsider like myself?
~
I dunno,
I can only tell you that without my neighbours,
I'd be stuffed.
~
Thank you,
Steve, Lisa, Bridie, Trent, Loana, Darren, Mary-Lou, Phil, Gerald, Claudia,
Sue and Esther and many, many, more, who'd blush.
May you live long and prosper.
YOU ARE READING
Barbed Wire
PoetryBarbed Wire reflects ironically (I hope) on the different roles of barbed wire - from its practical uses on a farm to the experiences of my father while he was incarcerated in a forced labour camp. It also questions how barbed wire might view itsel...
