by Lou Smith
knee deep in swamp
slick near swamp-edge
sludge under tread.
The blueberry ash, that grew as lanky
as a cattleman, is what this
place was named after – Ash Island –
its petals like faeries’ frilly slips
under tiny pink / white dresses.
We hauled fish when it was safe
–when islands hadn’t been
cemented as land with slag–
when the slick didn’t fill their gills
Lou Smith is a poet based on Wurundjeri country in Melbourne. Her writing has been published in journals and anthologies including Soft Surface, Nine Muses Poetry, The Lifted Brow, and The Caribbean Writer. Her first collection of poetry riversalt was published by Flying Island Books in 2015. www.lousmith.net
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