for Judith Wright
Granite & quartz country, once
gold rush, now cattle tread amongst
the white hawthorn and yellow broom;
from Captains Flat to Majors Creek
the creek-beds cut the empty vein.
Hail or heat, the hanged ghost
of Thomas Braidwood rolls out his
oaths big as boulders upon the town:
dust, poverty, despair, drunkenness
before he choked his rage at the
end of a rope, phlegm thick as gossip.