Sunday morning on the Calder 

two bodies rise with the crest.

One, foreground left, unattended,

the kangaroo’s back is turned away

with what looks like embarrassment.

On the opposite verge, 

someone at the dead biker’s chest

makes the bloated belly bobble and hop.

Momentarily, it seems like disrespect

and we all slow          eyes right

to see legs and arms splayed

by the morning tide.

His mates wave like leather scarecrows

on a windless day, witnesses to a perfect time

for a ride into the almost unknown.

But their Harleys still spread like a threat -

diamond torque - arc of black - broken chain.

One bike still on its side, wheels stopped

in a turn of roulette, I shock myself

wondering why I feel as much or more for the roo

that had hopped through a copper morning

innocent as a penny, all grace and life intent,

to be marked with the rough cross of road kill

and grieve thinking how its day will end,

where be thrown as landfill.