Eau-Forte
ON black bare trees a stale cream moon
hangs dead, and sours the unborn buds.
Two gaunt old hacks, knees bent, heads low,
tug, tired and spent, an old horse tram.
Damp smoke, rank mist fill the dark square;
and round the bend six bullocks come.
A hobbling, dirt-grimed drover guides
their clattering feet to death and shame.
