C.M. Parsons

Longitudes

I
It’s a fortress
of weatherboard
alone, on top
of the empty horizon
where the dust of roads away began

II
The washing line stretched out
catching some atmospheric bounce
blind bay windows heliographing abandonment
a wavy sentinel fence keeping the GREAT RUSTING WATER TANK at bay
away from the secrets of the back garden

III
Go across looped coils of blackberry
past a gray outhouse, still on duty
a shed that has some skins moldering into the wood
camouflage shadows of vegetable patches showing through long grass
where crumbling angels guard
a lichened orchard

IV
Over-run in broom and gorse
circling just one tree
where questions started
away from the wind
when the barrage has ended
and it’s Armistice quiet