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
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?


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Margaret Atwood Velvet55