Under black wattle barbs
on an arm of the brook he stopped
and harvested all he could.
Nectars and tobaccos
cavendish with the steam
that rose from his ginny pool.
For all the world was a whisky bowl
the sea never more than a trampoline
for the dreams of old Sweetman.
When he slept he dreamed of his cows
as they hugged the midnight searchlights
lowing there in yellow mist.
His sleeps came suddenly
Like furry prints from bank to bank
Disturbance on his waters.
His clock was hill and rock
For Sweetman’s labours pulled
more wealth than all the soil
Had blood or bone to tell.
Sweetman’s face was a rainbow wheel
his waltzing brought the wattle out
Where his feet fell lightly down
the earth took seven rests.