Poetry

Streams in Dry Land

We race through a land of few hills, past rusting cattle yards, windmills that no longer pump, where the scrub could be either alive or dead. When white, waving branches erupt in the air we suddenly know a river is following us and our paths are bound to cross in the dip of a dry creek bed. With no need of us, white gums grow along its length of rock and silt waiting patiently in a land we’ll never understand until we put down roots deep as each tree that lives to see its river filled.  

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