They share a hope of wealth, success,

yet long stares mark these men apart.

Only their thoughts alluvium,

it’s been a gruelling day.

Above ground some are smoke-walkers

rolling their own as shadows grow,

while drink storms through others,

who, gypsying in bush uncompassed,

will sleep where they fall,

their women forgotten.

The rest move impervious through scrub

and thorny scarp towards their homes;

a haze hides what they do not know

or took for granted, while stars keep watch

and the moon’s plate of gold

holds a promise of tomorrow.

The American, the German, the Scotchsman

and the two Italians at Gulgong.

They were digging for gold.

Real life without rehearsal

they stand where they’re told

eyes a battery of formality and mistrust.

They are flattered to be asked

but anxious to get back to work.

The claim, the licence and the fever

bind these five together, unwilling family

in sickness and in health. The spitting image

of each other, hats and beards

and heavy serge and boots.

It doesn’t matter who is who.

Those present at the washing up

will share the heartbreak or the wealth.

Hold no grudges. Shake each other’s hands,

pack up, hesitate a moment looking out,

perhaps aware that, at the washing up

there’s more than gold at stake.