The Smell of Water

Abigail rising, my mum, her party, almost 

one acre to put the dog out to pasture, 

cows so close in the mornings,

my dropped ts slowly returning with every tsk

Trees that rarely fell, so thick with tree

we would level with the rooftop with

no real sense that we were even

up there.

Cows in the mornings, cows receding

up the hill, cows giving birth on 

the horizon, cows watching cows in

labour all day.

Where does the water taste, where?

Did its metals fortify me when I moved

to town? I knew remoteness once

and the night demon that shifts

my hips in clubs is just that,

wants me to know what it is

to need water, to taste water.

Packed spaces remind me how jarring 

they are as is the sulphurous solitude

pouring forth from the country tap.