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By Lillian Kerrison


I found it belly up,
a steer furled
in rot.

Its veins are dry creek beds now, with
edges wizened like burnt paper,

bowed as hands bide
water, but empty and

This death smells of nothing.
Has it then passed
more quietly?


This poem was created during a workshop with New Shoots: Cairns Botanic Gardens

Go to New Shoots Public Submissions's profile to read more poems