They stand so stiff, so steely-bright,
frozen on their straight tracks from hill to hill—
sharp-pointed skeletons of ancient geometric trolls
or bunyips, caught by too-sudden sunrise
while striding straight-legged over roads and scrub and creeks.

A mountain might move faster than they can now,
but trees and houses keep their careful distance
from giant feet grounded deep in bedrock
and from arms spread wide.
The metal men hold on to power
with hands and shoulders, heads and hips.

One frosty, starry night, I hope, they hope,
the distant sun's stern influence will freeze and snap.
Graceful, the power men will bend to place
their many heavy lines down on the ground,
sparking and snapping at the grass.
They'll curve bright metal arms above their heads,
twining them like vines, and whirl those shining legs,
giant dervishes dancing under the ancient stars
until the next sunrise.