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by the track,
everlastings in bloom; paper-fine heads 
that vandals cut for vased reverie.
no heather here, only wildflowers white,
yellow, pinks. everywhere.

today there is no stonemason
only stonemusing, all in a day’s labour. 
I find myself gariwording
a kind of “I woz ’ere 2011” 
graffiti as old-fashioned texting
marking one’s own,
parking the national poetics
in sleight colonial fashion.

what other histories striate here
everlongingly? land removal &
razed ken notwithstanding. how to read 
dys-scriptively, query the quarry 
as industrial site or tourist point, 
the perfunctory consume & abuse 
of sublimity ungirded.

this poem as Babel enfant reconstructs
a monument, stories the stone 
once transported to Melbourne
to support State Library sophistries. surplus slabs left
scarred & abandoned. some forms of the past handed on 
treasured extract (speaks volumes).

around stark mining huts, three children 

hide & seek, a different game 
(foxes now baited here) 
(try to) pull the chain 
of the old trolley rusted on broken lines.
futuring hands find only toy forms
& will not remember this day. except
for three take-home everlastings:
forever keepsakes?