'Making the road' by Lesley Lebkowicz
The gentle hills north of Taralga
unfold as though
everything were possible. Trees
grow. Their crowns shift in the small wind
showing off new leaf tips: pink, green, a hint
of blue. The cows in the paddocks are big
and brown. They browse and stare
into space. One lays her head on her friend’s
shoulder. Their calves lollop around
getting the hang of things. A bull is fenced
in. He stands still. A curl of hair hangs
from his pizzle. But my blood no longer
flows. My breath is still. No oxygen
is fed into my cells and no waste
removed. It’s true my hands and feet
still drive the car. To the right another road;
the signpost points to Crookwell.
I have never been there
but my mind makes the way:
a road of rutted dirt with tussocks of
grass bunched on either side like skirts
held up against the dust that rises
from each passing car. It takes a bend
into rolling country – roos
raise their heads at the sound of a motor –
and then it winds its way to Crookwell ...
I stop where I am – north of Taralga –
and climb out, dragging my body
as though she and I were one; I lean
on the warm metal and look at the hills
and the trees and the cows and breathe again.
Lesley Lebkowicz