Under the Wattle Grove

Yellow dog curled in the dirt
frost crisp and crackling grass
today like another hundred and one before
as the earth turns over and slows to stillness.

Under a field of broken rock and stringy scrub tufts
cold sandstone piled in the shadow of the swamp oaks
quiet unbroken but for the bubbling of submarine turtles
playing in the green brown brackish water hole.

As the sun rises the light catches flashes of white
scattered among the dappled purple shade
minuscule orchid with a single dew draped flower
delicate and untouched by human sight.

Foxes scurry always hurrying through barbed wire
under fallen gums and through the thick brush
stillness concealing but silence revealing
a brace of half-grown pups close behind.

Ducks bobbing on the surface of a mud bank dam
dark water wrinkled with a passing breeze
reflecting and refracting an azure sky
as the green young gums settle and sigh.

This place has never changed,
though your face is no longer the same,
five acres of yellow slab and red clay
and the vast expanse of an empty mind.

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