Station Road

Willi Chen

November winds bluster in rage round the corner
of the old post office that stood clear
from the ageless curb of set sandstone.
The bullock carts swung around it but near
the line, stood an old hut its rotted
roof sifted leaves, drying in the sun,
that housed a grog-nosed watchman with his hair-
less head, only two fingers in one hand,
gesturing wildly

Copyright © Willi Chen