Drought Travelling west the land burns but the sky withholds its cure.   Slouched in his ute a farmer watches stock grazing roadsides, wonders how long he can cling to land tortured by extremes, when he’ll be forced to sell the genetic line, fine-tuned for fertility, once fleshed for profit.   How long? The question a refrain. How long before the smell of rain? Robyn Lance   Haiku forget-me-nots shiver in the morning breeze bees buzz the blues Robyn Lance   The Headmistress A thickset figure with tight grey curls. Eyes roll up under fluttery lids as she speaks the…