we spent the night
in the main ridge car park
you held onto the goldfish
humming into the bowl for their comfort
the goat unbundled on the back seat
head on my lap
listening to the chickens
talk away an unfamiliar place
the rescue rabbit standing up
to the three cats muttering discontent
our neighbour’s blue heeler head on paws
away with us when its owner stayed
until the all clear at 2.00 am
when we drove over the slack jawed bridge
and saw the hills in primary red and darkness
just night and a vermillion flow
‘black is not a colour’ as you adjusted
the sooty once white fedora
at an angle for explanation
the police opened the road barrier
horses and cattle ran to greet us
a kind eye of remonstrance
we fell asleep knowing you had it right
missed the new evacuation call
trying to announce the warning
from an abyss somehow bright
next morning steel bucket mop in hand
blanking out the embers
crushing the charcoal into a fleet sketch
the artist in you still singing
James Walton was a librarian, a farm labourer, and mostly a public sector union official. He is published in many anthologies, journals, and newspapers. He is the author of four collections of poetry: The Leviathan's Apprentice’ 2015, Walking Through Fences 2018, Unstill Mosaics 2019, and Abandoned Soliloquies 2019.
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