The South Colah Brush – Martin Langford

What you do
with a turpentine forest
is level it flat—
for the piles, for the cash—
and then roll in the homes and their sets.
As if the right room, the right garden,
could answer your stomach’s request
for a single fixed point—
somewhere to stand, in the welter;
somewhere to anchor
your floorless but practical life:
pillars asserting restraint
against side-rows of cypress;
            the feng-shui of oblique approach
weaving views-on-command.
You do allow birds in—for visits—
but now that the garden
is just one more square in the grid,
you are swaddled both ways: up,
into broadband, or out—into networks
of streets.
Mission accomplished.
At ease.
Then what is it leads you—
when night falls,
            and cars are soft waves—
to stand in the whisper and looseness of air,
while light slips away, and the earth—
and the mesh of co-ordinates?