The way you know you think you know
How the yellow creek warbles leftward;
That upwind railway siding; or
Was it a tinny, ruffled shearing-shed
                                      with red

Paint flaking from the window frame
On which you’ve always leant. Those vines:
Someone, you think, has often picked their fruit.
How deep you know this valley,
                                       bleakly, sadly.

There has never been anywhere else.