Brisvegas

The river was once enough.
A place to drink,
to fish,
to speak.

Then lords arrived with ladies,
measuring land in silence,
writing deeds on the water.
stacking laws where campfires had managed

Forced into geometry,
reduced to spectacle,
voice forgotten.

The billabong on the southbank
Is poured from concrete
backpackers and children laugh and take selfies.
But history has no more reflection here—
only in a vague chemical stink, paddelpop sticks and the heat of the sun.

The river endures,
muted,
watching the city pretend
its scar is a smile.