The tracks run west past the duckback,
its at-attention hyacinths,
the tin mill and its rusty flanks
and curves past the golfers (shot, sir)
until it finds its own rhythm,
thrum of steel wheel and nature
carving up the countryside:
pines and gnarly gums, the plain
widening until it tricks the eye.
In this heat, you can smell the leather
and those who took this little trip
feel the chromed luggage rods,
shudder at the jolting pull of the engine
and, best of all, draw in the smoke.
They close their eyes as the driver
adjusts his navy cap, snaps a little lever