A Murray Flood

By the bank of the Murray

At the interchange

Stands a dated pole

Of the sick and insane



He stood and gazed for a while

To observe the barbers post

Which cited marks of time

And the screams of many ghost



The echoes of many floods

All by her design

Of nature at her best

She left her film of grime



He recalled a truth of calls bygone

And windows of leering soul

He felt the sting of those who would

Lore in time a mole.



They spoke with truth or so they thought

And refined their righteous words

To paint a tale of how they felt

and brew their lies like curds.



He walked away and watched their shunt

hot and cold it stung

Until he left and pondered

A town of half its lung.



The months went by

He thought no more

Until it made its mark

The blade, the tongue

Some trivial yelps

He understood the Hark



He left too late to clear his mind

And will one day return

To answer to their gossips

And fill their dusty urn.



Truth could not be lifted

And no one could attest

To a man so ungifted

And somewhat at arrest



But if you grace this same path

Be sure to hold your own

The gossips will claim you “friend”

But ignore their boredom moan.