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This poem is taken from PN Review 83, Volume 18 Number 3, January - February 1992.

Crankshaft Les Murray

Buildings, like all made things
that can't be taken back
into the creating mind,
persist as reefs of the story
which made them, and which someone
will try to drive out of fashion.

    On a brown serpentine road,
    cornice around a contour
    into steep kikuyu country,
    the Silver Farm appears
    hard-edged on its scarp of green
    long-ago rainforest mountain.

All its verandahs walled in,
the house, four-square to a pyramid
point, like an unhit spike head
bulks white above the road
...


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