My Living

Before you there was drought.
Mind laboured on stiff ground,
Turning stones, prodding cracked
Pores, bent across places.
And each day like dead bark
Fell from a gasping tree.

Now there is work; ground turns.

That sudden muddy eye
Has spread across plains and
The low bush has budded.
Bringing space in cramped air,
Your rain is my living.

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© circa 1973-76