A New Town

The churning red storm billows behind our rusty old Ute

Thick, rutted tires haul us further from our home

“Ya beaut. Ya beaut”

The crazy cockatoo cries, preening his yellow crown.

I watch forlornly as the rolling hills are sliced by harsh geometric blocks

And the grass is drowned in black, oozing tar

The men slide by in their sleek suits and the women flounce in their frilly frocks.


Dad swings onto the drive of a bland, grey house

Plastic trees with glass pebbles stand guard by the door.

Gaunt faces peek over manicured hedges,

“Hello, nice to meet you,” those fake smiles beam

Disdainful, perky noses upturn at the smell of the fresh country air

Untouched and polluted by a false smell in a can.

The End

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