Mountain Scene

Cars, pulsating bodies, fill the track
nudge the solitary walker towards wet grass.
Shouted names, thick muscles on turf
as a silent whiteness blows in,
the whole oval disappearing under
arc lights: alien eyes that do not see.
Whistles blow, a commanding voice pierces
the wall of air, as cars sidle away,
intrude stark haloes between trees.
Climb the path, step back into stillness
where the currawong swerved into grace
through clear dusk air. A space around you
then scrub in the trammels of teasing smoke
that moves in relation, an enfolding distance.