Pink and grey galahs are smashing
through darkness, their strangled calls
jerking as we guess their flight;
an anxiety compels me to write
though silence is safer; the wind
is so intense that even a clear night
wavers its reflected light, and everything
blurs: it is not a time for absolute
belief, as prayer quavers and gets
through threadbare—a kite tail,
branches whiplashed and gnawed;
the lights of the valley, spread
far apart, are small flames floating
unsteady, fed on their own hoopla,
absorbed in their own histrionics
and humours, or deadpan codicils
of time-keeping and television watching,
tear-jerkers and potboilers.
Flame-shapes of the houses
vary: some soothe themselves,
others contort like barbed wire.
This is self-administering justice
in our valley. It is usually discreet,
though some are lit as congregations
or rabble rousers, or the elderly
eating meals alone, reminiscences
as complete as benzene molecules,
Ouroboros, this en-snaked valley,
this thoroughfare of foxes,
night we look unto ourselves
staring back.