Poetry

Farm Houses

      Farm Houses Perched on a ridge, crouched in the last scrub of a hill, set at the end of a winding drive: they all stand at an angle to the tarmac, facing the same way like cows, bums to the weather. No house that’s any good will face the road: yards cluttered with old tractors, dead utes, they always watch their own – stock or crops; cattle, sheep or wheat; driveways placed so they can spot strangers who approach. Why do they never see us hurrying past? A good farm house never surveys anyone else’s property.

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