The Ross Valley, Kiama

A high new moon of mountains cradling
Rolling stonewalled velvet fields,
With herds and homes and apt hands ladling
Milk pumped fresh which fullness yields;

Rows of palms like milk ejecting
In lofty founts from massaged nipples;
High thin calls of birds injecting
Silence; a breeze that dam glass ripples.

And Rex with dainty pearls not hung
Is thrusting his blade, or charging a rival,
Or fixing a rambler with Mars-red eyne.

While a corpse is served on a crust of dung
As a calf in plaints abides its revival.
A bore’s dark eye is lashed with kine.

by Michael Buhagiar

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