Poem of the Week: Death of a Derelict

Ash fires. Scent of hickory and eucalyptus. Stars blazing
in a southern sky. Sundowners dancing with bush shadows.
A swaddled silence. An old timer rubbing shoulders

with ghosts, now that the tracks are cold. One of the mates gone
walkabout with tucker bag and billy can. An eye out
for tomorrow’s fill, the dream of three square meals. A day’s tramp.

They played Waltzing Matilda in the crematorium, bush ballads
on the banjo. A bog standard coffin hitting thick black curtains.
The song of a clapped out swagman who told his story walking,

a sourdough dreaming backwards, grizzled
in the search for gold, the cobbers playing catch-up
to give him a fair go, looking as if they’d known all along
that this was the station for a last pitch.

Laughing gear aside as they watch. The soul of the derelict
folding before their eyes into the swag of never, never land.
Drifters drinking with the flies, shuffling the cards again,
dealing a new hand. Camping out. Cocksure of their apples.

Dolores Stewart writes poetry in Irish and in English and has published collections with the Dedalus Press and with Coisceim. Her most recent collection is CoolChaint, published by Arlen House in 2020.