The road was dusty, splintered, blue.
It reminded me of you.
The wind it swept around the house
Emptied due to last years drought.
No one comes around these days
Corrugated memories of your face
Not much running from the bore
The windmill, a reminder of before
The dust kicks up and spirals into existence
Behind cracked lips, there is no grin, just persistence
It’s hard to know what’s driving him.
He hasn’t had a good price at the gate in years.
The city, most left long ago,
Is the only place he’ll find a mate
But it’s rolled gold territory.
Bushrangers thick through here before.
It’s rolled gold country.
The pans will sing alluvial once more.