Green hint of leaf I smell, sandy hands holding the wind, In bowls of dams drained by wattle roots, I play, Like purple flowers of small shrubs, in open fields, Where possibility becomes, but naivety never feigns, Years matter little but none are forgotten, They are as they were, now as I am, a dry river, Muddied but not sullied, handled but not held, Polished by the scratching of acacia thorns, My twisted bark is soothed of its aches, Silence here is precious but plentiful, We gorge ourselves in it, us, this small group, Retreating, like mountains on a moving horizon, East touches west, the colours splendid, Who could have invented it? Must be the buzzing bees in the yellow blossoms, Their violins make angry music, Lovely to my senses like the clouds that threaten, Will the drought pay the ransom? The tiny blue messenger birds must know, Surely, for they fly with purpose, from here to there, Gossiping in flight; it’s majestic squalor, Colour it not, it’s just the way it is here, Where night sounds are heard at day, And day sounds wouldn’t dare intrude on the night, A leopard prowls, out of sight, Bush babies flaunt their eccentricity, Unnamed feathered creatures squawk, In the distance, insolent dogs echoe, With their masters, with their wirelesses, Where are we now? Still in our stillness, devour me in it, It can never be enough, lush we feed, Rest right here, For tomorrow it’s back to the world… Green hint of leaf I smell, sandy hands holding the wind, In bowls of dams drained by wattle roots, I play, Like purple flowers of small shrubs, in open fields, Where possibility becomes, but naivety never feigns, Years matter little but none are forgotten, They are as they were, now as I am, a dry river, Muddied but not sullied, handled but not held, Polished by the scratching of acacia thorns, My twisted bark is soothed of its aches, Silence here is precious but plentiful, We gorge ourselves in it, us, this small group, Retreating, like mountains on a moving horizon, East touches west, the colours splendid, Who could have invented it? Must be the buzzing bees in the yellow blossoms, Their violins make angry music, Lovely to my senses like the clouds that threaten, Will the drought pay the ransom? The tiny blue messenger birds must know, Surely, for they fly with purpose, from here to there, Gossiping in flight; it’s majestic squalor, Colour it not, it’s just the way it is here, Where night sounds are heard at day, And day sounds wouldn’t dare intrude on the night, A leopard prowls, out of sight, Bush babies flaunt their eccentricity, Unnamed feathered creatures squawk, In the distance, insolent dogs echoe, With their masters, with their wirelesses, Where are we now? Still in our stillness, devour me in it, It can never be enough, lush we feed, Rest right here, For tomorrow it’s back to the world…

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