Two tracks diverged in greygreen scrub
Two tracks diverged in greygreen scrub,
Where beetling wattles held motes aloft.
At end of the thread of a tunnelling grub
Frost lay in a culvert, under a shrub –
New England rambles had made him soft.
A little farther on I tripped over Lawson,
Also facedown in a ditch – gone overland
Without his flask and claimed by the DTs,
Or some other derangement of his senses
(For every sign askew reads Broken Hill).
Atop the vale met Lindsay en plein air,
Who never cared for Banksia or Waratah –
Saw nudes by the dozen and no pubic hair.
Still, he was a dab hand at the building of
Ships in miniature – inbred urgings of a
Colonial inheritance bent on escape by sea.
So I turned in the dust on a decided heel
(The walker’s an atom being radical free),
For no matter the form, be it abstract or real,
No matter the Church and no matter the See,
At home is the one place an artist ought be.