He was turning into his gateway
when he was struck from behind.
Fog had stolen the road
barbed wire couldn’t hold back the quiet
or the farmer
trying to believe what the fog revealed:
his brother dead and a neighbour
shaking against the side of a car.
Road accidents, suicides, careless deaths
a district catches its breath
and memories trail a family’s name:
his son getting through the fence with a shotgun
her parents cleaned up by a milk tanker.
Talk around the kitchen table
slows down to a stare out the window
a shaking of the head, questions.
They sat a stubby on the grave
of a footballer everybody knew
then drank the afternoon to his name.
Somewhere near the Drive-in
they rolled and she flew
like a story itching to be told.