Season of farmland reduced to its knees, blistered hills
genuflecting to the clear. In almost everything
drought has disclosed itself to the wind-hushed mind;
the udders are cracked, a gate bobs like a fallen
soldier in the stanched centre of a paddock. There is
here that forgives, ground into the habitual seepage
of somethings split head: gulls pick the otherwise
ignored mammal flapping on the road, a dead insects
slashed wings sway over the tar like an orchestra.
And yet there can be no forgiveness. It is always but never
now where barbed wire fences are balked by the sun,
the sky hissing through popped staples, almost
but never. And then at night, under dried-out stars,
rain features in a pantomime: swallowing the earth.