Michael Aiken

Armidale

The path between the trees beside
the stagnant pond that links the
rugby field to me, seated in my cell—
neon tinnitus and floating voices muted by
the walls, the floor—
leading to an inclined path
awash with leaves from European trees—
deciduating aliens ensconced in this Australian
place of learning;
             The path passes close to the library,
leaves one to orienteer between 50s buildings
bowered by willows swaying with the weight
of brushtails brawling for fruit.

And the sculpted gardens of maple and oak
make more sense at this altitude, in this chill
absorbed by the farmboys wearing their tight shorts
and ugg boots, their conservative girlfriends
in denim skirts and hooded t-shirts
smoking durries two-by-two.