Fucken ey.

The council have

placed two rocks

on the foot path 

near the four-way intersection,

after the last

motorcar reunion

in front of the

dairy-bakehouse-chip shop 

conga line. 

For now, though,

they dance

to sweet tunes and

swears and the spit of fry oil.

The rocks are new, by way of instillation,

and ancient, by way of the rest of us.

The mountain has been made manageable by locals that frequent the 

SaveMart and the Bottle-O and the pub,

sliding from each to each, like 

water off a duck back, like water off a 

windscreen, like water in the eye that makes 

the road and sky and horizon the same colour.

Every driver sees a path

Like every hammer sees

A nail, and rocks like that become 

mountains in moments to stop a 

ram-raid symphony from striking up in song.

To keep everyone from 

moving, moving, 

moving on down 

the river.