Almanac Poetry: ‘Get Up’ – Tommy Mallet



Get Up


A voice wakes me,
determined, firm.


“Get up.
You’re out here alone.
Get out of here, quick.”


Realising it’s mine, I release my hand from my head.
Everything’s covered in blood and rain.
I’m lying on the wet canopy floor with a fallen widow maker,
and half cut wood.


Making it to the track,
I throw the chainsaw, slippery with blood, in the back,
turn the ignition.


The dog neither dags for pats
or looks my way.
Somehow, it just knows, like love,
and leaves me alone,


as the ute slides over mounds,
kicking up mud,
brushing through bracken,
and dogwood,
while small creeks of black-red
run down my forehead, cheeks, neck, ear,
before filling my shirt,
the nearest hospital still a good hour away.


Outside, the bush opens up to a high mountain ridge.
Deep valleys, mist and
cold rocky peeks appear
within the rain.


They shift and rumble
through each other’s space,
as they have done for all time,


while we work along one of their spines,
so small.


A great surge of freedom floods through me,
to be a part of
the motion of this land.



Tommy Mallet



More poetry from Tommy Mallet HERE



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  1. Jeepers, Tommy.
    That all sounds too scary, and too real.
    Hope all is well.

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