My father’s camp


My father’s camp

Now a week old

Deep in the Blackstone Ranges

Was quite

The cooking pit

Covered with sand

Dormant

Night’s cold grip

Not yet relinquished

As the suns light

Crested the ridge line

To fall fragmented

Through still leaves

His swags heavy canvas

Red earth and diesel coat

Still wet with dew

This was Sunday

A day to rest

The small stone fell

 

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1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

One response to “My father’s camp

  1. Love this one Ben. Always have!

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