Endless troopie hours
between craters and dunes;
there was no need to speak.
We pull up at what’s left of a town.
He in the Wu Tang Clan gear
and red, yellow and black bandana
shows me where his nephew hung
himself from a playground crossbeam
after too many sniffing hours.
Wind from battered pink plains
brings blanketing dust, heat,
a wave of Painted Finches.
Lorne Johnson (NSW)
An independent poetry journal. Watch your step.
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