Les Murray

A poem

Adventures in lexiconia

  Plucked chook we called Poultry, or Fowl, a meat rare in our kitchens, crepe-skinned for festivity or medicine. As Chooks alive, they were placid donors of eggs and mild music. Perches and dark gave them sleep. Then came the false immigration of …

Death gets into the suburbs, but sleek turnover highrise keeps it out of mind   and wilderness, wrapped in its own deaths, scarcely points us at ours,   but furred rusty machines, and grey boards unglazed for heritage or holiday –   you …