My father followed broken sticks
from a car into the bush.
The car shone like a rock from outer space
window deep in grass and still half on
the dirt road, through Murray’s Run.
He found him hanging just above the earth
leering, like a spook on tippy-toe.
A Sydney suicide, the devil thumbs his nose.
When our dog was old, and slow, he left
and wandered long, to find a place to die.
Away from loving eyes, beneath the leaves.
I think it would have been too hard to walk
very far from the road to die like this.