Sunday morning on the Calder
two bodies rise with the crest.
One, foreground left, unattended,
the kangaroo’s back is turned away
with what looks like embarrassment.
On the opposite verge,
someone at the dead biker’s chest
makes the bloated belly bobble and hop.
Momentarily, it seems like disrespect
and we all slow eyes right
to see legs and arms splayed
by the morning tide.
His mates wave like leather scarecrows
on a windless day, witnesses to a perfect time
for a ride into the almost unknown.
But their Harleys still spread like a threat -
diamond torque - arc of black - broken chain.
One bike still on its side, wheels stopped
in a turn of roulette, I shock myself
wondering why I feel as much or more for the roo
that had hopped through a copper morning
innocent as a penny, all grace and life intent,
to be marked with the rough cross of road kill
and grieve thinking how its day will end,
where be thrown as landfill.