A carpark in Culverden
a poem by Harley Bell
The river rises in the Spenser Mountains
and I am trying to sleep
on a bed of gravel
between parallel painted lines
while insects orbit my dreams.
What is this place but a few Conifers and some grass?
It is sheep. It is cows across the Amuri Plains.
It is tributary creeks that flow east to the ocean.
It is me after driving through the dark,
after soaking in the hot pools of Hamner Springs,
after feasting on lamb shanks and mashed potatoes.
It is long-haulers and 18 wheelers;
it is a pitstop and a good place to piss.
It is potholes in dire need of asphalt.
It is a sign that reads: freedom campers
cannot spend more than 1 night in 30 days.
Culverden, I understand, someone must scrub the toilets.
Someone must empty the trash.
Culverden, I am with you in the early light,
waiting for the bakery to open. Culverden,
there is lichen growing
through the cracks in the concrete.
Culverden, there are birds
on the branches of the Conifers
that makes themselves known
with song
and it fills me
with the type of blossoming
usually reserved for flowers.
Culverden, the night dragged me in
and I shall be gone by mid-morning.
——————
First publish in A Fine Line, Autumn 2023 issue