Wasteland

 

He sits each day on the veranda,

weathered skin

stretched taut

on brittle bones.

Vacant eyes

mirror a wasteland. His hands,

clasped as in prayer,

flutter

like broken-winged birds.

 

He weeps for what has gone.

 

She hovers,

helpless.

He cannot hear her voice or sense

her touch. She reaches for him, but hesitates,

once more defeated

by the shimmering mirage

of forty years

that have come to nothing.

 

She weeps for him.

 

I hand-feed from the ute, watch

the last of the herd forage

in the dust. I work the pump. Water

slowly fills the trough

and I dream...

 

Of lightning in the distance,

thunder on the range,

the drumbeat of rain on iron

like the stampede of a thousand beasts.

Of red gums in serried ranks,

proud sentinels

beside a crystal river tumbling to the sea.

Of blazing colour to the horizon.. .

yellow rattlepod. . . purple fuchsia...

green sand lily. . . white paper daisy. . .

blue crowfoot. . .red desert pea.. .