This is just something I scribbled while coming down the Hume Highway a few months back. I don't know if it warrants beng called poetry; happy to be clarified by someone more knowledgeable than I am.
Grey clouds stretch horizon to horizon
Drizzling, aching to be relieved of their burden.
Black cows stand sentinel on hill slopes
Suffering the misty rain, seeming to listen
Seeking something beyond the range of hearing.
Electricity towers, two legged, march endlessly
Not knowing where to, ignoring the terrain.
Little towns rest uncomfortably in valleys
Off the main drag, aware of their mortality
Remaining alive for want of knowing how to die.
Traffic speeds through on the highway
Touching the ground lightly, little noticed by the hills
The country is waiting for something.
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