Caricamento in corso...

O Arid Sun.

Tilted arid sun
with it’s leaning light,
me, hiding south
of my brimmed hat,
the Australian Summer
is like a smouldering
iron hammer
beating fleshy blisters
upon the horizontal
shoulder.
 
Wicked is the heat
that dries the tongue
of a sheep, no water
for it’s belly, everywhere
scattered bones bleached
into white light.
 
The big drought!
The big drought!
 
Earthly dust from
foot to mountain peek,
experience these souls
of dream-time creatures crawl
into the pores of my pale sang-froid
skin, a place to hide,
a cooling nirvana.
 
Under the parched January sun
my tears stream in rhythms
of  forgotten rivers.
Sun God! Why do you curse
this land of great red rock?

(2015)

Altre opere di Patrick Carey...



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