bright red
wounding the hillside, once
twice: every year
the dust billows down through the gullies
from up north, from the desert
dry-red flatlands, red dust clogs
cloaks the sky
so heavy, day smothers
so light, night fades
desperate-hearted nights, of throbbing sticky
heat: a bullet-hole
moon bleeds over soft lands –
bright red, like a bushfire
casting a pall
