About the Grampians

by James Aitchison
  
I came to unbreakable rock, 
Rock that was young and cooling 
Before any woman gave birth. 
 
Rock that will never be quarried, 
Where sand-dust grows a thousand trees, 
Nurtured by bushfires and rain. 

Australian bushfires

by James Aitchison

They say the smoke has reached Chile.
Not just the smoke from our blazing forests,
But the smoke from lost firefighters and townsfolk,
And thousands of lost homes,
And five hundred million wild animals,
And cattle and sheep and bold horses
Burned alive in once-lush paddocks.

They say the smoke is toxic.  It is not. 
It is sacred.

Autumn

by James Aitchison

The heat of summer bleeds
         from the sky.
Golden sunrises.
Orange afternoons.
Fiery sunsets.
Summer writes itself
         on the leaves,
Then tumbles onto the grass,
Tossed by the wind,
Claimed by the long, long winter.

An Australian summer

by James Aitchison

Grieving hills,
Your silky trees consumed by fire.

In the angry afternoon
The heat strangles a breeze at birth,

And the wild night claims
The leavings of the day.