Gedicht
Miriam Wei Wei Lo
From Eva Sounness: Leaving the Goldfields
From Eva Sounness: Leaving the Goldfields
From Eva Sounness: Leaving the Goldfields
Eva sits on the train. She is watching the crowdat the station, the precise expression of faces,
the way a man crinkles his brow as he blows unshed tears
into his safe handkerchief. They are leaving,
leaving the dust of Kalgoorlie, the red saltbush plains,
the jostle of mining equipment against the horizon,
the chimneys, the skeleton structures of tall poppet heads,
the way the earth swallows men up and spits them out
with a faint trace of gold in their sweat.
Eva sits on the train. She is memorising
the colour of Kalgoorlie dust. She is calling to mind
the names of her friends, she is sketching
a house in the distance that leans, small and empty
against the wind. She is tracing the contours of shopfronts
and running her hand over faces to capture the shape of a nose.
She is taking it with her. Packing it up in her bag
like a painting, a series of clay figurines,
a charcoal sketch she returns to, over and over,
smudging out lines and shading in features,
trying to bring back the shape of a roof, the way
two lips purse and open to say farewell.
© 2004, Miriam Lo
From: Against Certain Capture
Publisher: Five Islands Press, Wollongong
From: Against Certain Capture
Publisher: Five Islands Press, Wollongong
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Gedichten van Miriam Wei Wei Lo
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From Eva Sounness: Leaving the Goldfields
Eva sits on the train. She is watching the crowdat the station, the precise expression of faces,
the way a man crinkles his brow as he blows unshed tears
into his safe handkerchief. They are leaving,
leaving the dust of Kalgoorlie, the red saltbush plains,
the jostle of mining equipment against the horizon,
the chimneys, the skeleton structures of tall poppet heads,
the way the earth swallows men up and spits them out
with a faint trace of gold in their sweat.
Eva sits on the train. She is memorising
the colour of Kalgoorlie dust. She is calling to mind
the names of her friends, she is sketching
a house in the distance that leans, small and empty
against the wind. She is tracing the contours of shopfronts
and running her hand over faces to capture the shape of a nose.
She is taking it with her. Packing it up in her bag
like a painting, a series of clay figurines,
a charcoal sketch she returns to, over and over,
smudging out lines and shading in features,
trying to bring back the shape of a roof, the way
two lips purse and open to say farewell.
From: Against Certain Capture
From Eva Sounness: Leaving the Goldfields
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