Colin McCahon

talks of a land with few lovers. 
The fence line 
straight down the hill, 
the dark green of pine trees 
cover the opulent lie 
of sown grass 
on slick slope. 
A big cabbage tree 
nicks the horizon, sentinel 
that’s shed 
a million seeds. 
I pass 
at open road speed, 
forced to turn 
my neck once, then again 
to find that tree 
on the bare bulging hill. 
Cut with a fence line 
that spreads like a scar 
in the last light. Myself, 
a farmer’s son 
who has cut and killed 
more than most.


Kevin O’Donnell works as a Nurse Educator in ICU and in 2013 completed the MA in Creative writing at the IIML. He is addicted to building mountainbike tracks.