On the parched ground
two grey wallabies paused
as if painted there.
No clouds, no wind, no end to
the future already gone.

Cockatoos flock
in the Bloodwood as the farmer
strikes a match, lights up.
Don’t worry ‘bout the cancer.
Farm’s already gone to hell.

Yellow balloons, black
balloons. After the few guests
have squeaked the gate shut
behind them a few raindrops
idly spit on the balloons.

“Don’t know why I keep smoking these bloody things,” he says, as he takes a half finished rollie from behind his ear. “Sure as hell ain’t for the pleasure.”

 “They talk about farmers being the salt of the earth. Well,” he says, and pauses to light up his rollie again, “salt’s about all there is left to harvest.”