farmer's song

farmer's song

in memory of Harry Judge

the plastic australian flags,
the light eluded chandeliers,
the half bandaged face,
the spent sheep shears,
and a kitchen chair remains
near the pock scarred workbench
with the four beers you had
before you walked out
to an expanse of dead
grass, tumultuous hills
and you sit there still
in the garage
below an open sky
roof, staring up
is the will you left
in your cracked bucket, red
faced to the snailing clouds
downwards on a trigger
the upward
clutch, the memory
bulleting through you.