Too Little, Too Late
A white lily sunrise
brings the malaise,
humid dreams shimmer
off the blackening tar
Red dust girates an axis
dark matter is overcome,
lethargy drags the body
into a blazing bright sun
Work, a joke on labouring men
each day drains into the next,
without a dropping of heaven
without a wisp of air, no respite
The incessant heat hoards air,
the smell of rain on a breeze,
nothing but a cruel memory
as the earth bakes golden
These summer days long
for the circles to turn,
for cooler winds braced
with a stinging cold nose
For nights clothed in linen
their warmth, a comfort,
not these deadly months
this end of the world
Gaping fissures score
the face of the outback,
spinifex gathers along
a rabbit proof fence
Farmers no longer see
a blue horizon beckoning,
the life they bestowed, now,
lost in bankrupt despair
The year's turning decades
and the green paddocks,
never more will checker
our rolling countrysides
each day another species dies
each day another million lives
become nothing but a eulogy
on a yellowed classified page
Still we do nothing, much,
still the child cries unheard,
and the world will end, not,
with a bang or a shout
But on a whistling breeze
only heard by the gods
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