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