Stanwell Tops


We shake off the engine echo, dopplering
Over cliffs and shoals of glossy cloud

Where fly-suited radicals uplift
From wild Kombis to the hydrosphere

Slung in air as thick as Liquid Nails
Leaching out of seams of distant ice

The yellow light a horizontal knife
Blunted on an algal bloom, the reef weed

Rolled up like a finger of tobacco
In a backed-up gutter, we stop to watch

Mazarine blues wash the windscreen
Down in rimy penstrokes, hieroglyphic

Screams or dreamy helices – The end
Is near, the end! – descend the mauve

Ecliptic. One comes thru the skylight
Of our noncanopic wagon, a blanketfall

He says to drive, Crocs up on the dash
The whole panoptic world gone black

A groaning fissure widens in the cityself
Open road and gutterfingers on the wheel

He whispers: All of us are seachangers
But some of us are serious.

Mitchell Welch

Mitchell Welch has lived in Brisbane, Melbourne and the Gold Coast, where has worked as a public servant, cemetery administrator and communications consultant. He is currently based in Hobart. His first book, Vehicular Man, is forthcoming as part of the Rabbit Poets Series.

More by Mitchell Welch ›

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