Poetry

Broome Taxi Rides

Look at that row of boab trees, now it’s the dry not a leaf clings to the branches (the fruit hangs like camels’ testicles, trophies?) No one has found much use for them, unlike mangoes. Now there’s a fruit… Grow in millions on green stems a metre long. In the wet they ripen and attract the bats, millions of them too. Feel that wind? Dry as buggery. The wet begins when it stops blowing. Crocodiles will migrate south in the wet, looking for more toothsome prey. Here’s a golden rule: when the tide’s halfway between high and low the water…

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