Almanac Poetry: ‘Air and Blood’ – Tommy Mallet
Air and Blood
The air’s always dark up here,
everything damp and moss.
One of the giant gums is dead.
There’s a lot of rotting wood to step over
but if I fell it right
the crown will land near the track.
Clearing undergrowth, I look up its trunk for camber,
the weight of branches, wind,
then go back to the ute for the wedges;
heavy metal, that feels right in my hand –
unbreakable, uncomplicated singular objects,
perfect in their weight.
The best things I’ve ever owned.
Then everything
becomes simple, hard work.
I cut the face, then back-cut 2/3rds through,
and put the wedges to use.
The tree drops where it should,
but while cutting rings
the saw nicks a branch and kicks back.
I’m quick enough on the safety, but the spiked bumper
catches my hand.
The blood starts as I work,
running the handle,
smudging with each shift of grip,
dripping onto the bush floor.
Neither cut is big.
I plug them with moss,
tied down with a few small lengths of
torn shirt.
When the rings are done I go at the closest few
with the blockbuster,
before taking a small break,
watching the back of my hand –
its scars, big and small,
busted knuckles,
dislocations that never healed right.
They remind me of my father’s hands
when I was a child,
his and the laborer’s,?who helped stump-up a shed
on the bush block;
weathered and strong.
Two black cockies are crawing
somewhere overhead.
Every animal here looks beautiful
until you get close,
and see their scars.
How they’ve been hunted, or fended off,
or fought.
The air shifts above the canopy,
becoming darker still.
Soon, the blood’s stopped,
and I’m back at work,
trying to beat the rain.
Tommy Mallet
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