Between the red rolling river and the red brick lane,
in a shack that overhangs the embankment,
a shot is fired. On the stove beans are boiling
and there’s fresh fish waiting to be fried.
Bats chirp among the wind chimes of the boat masts
on the water, a small town church bell rings.
Arse-slapped, newbones squeal. Blood falls
through floorboards into the red rolling river.
Rolling red past the pigs at outhouse gruntings,
the tappers cupping sap out in the groves,
past the ranchers at their whorehouse runtings,
the families at their TVs tapping soap,
past the church and voices singing
“Here He comes, hallelujah, here He comes”.