Damn you, Robert Frost.
Can I not at least
try this 4WD track
Crudely blazed by some cowboy
In the regenerating bush?
The way is plain.
Why does there always have
To be a struggle?
But no. Here I am
Looking for markers.
The absurd slide and stumble
Over cold rotting logs
The sweat and grasp
And slicing open of hands and knees
On cutty grass and the circular saw
of snapped-off branches.
Just to chance upon an
untrammelled stream bed
with minute furry daisies
popping out of lurid green cushions.
Water as clear as
The source of life itself.