As days rant to the seasons

Caught out on the first day; Spring wields its wild rebirth, a rant to a day spent miles from safe harbour; But for the shallow rocky outcrop; Bundled amongst trees casting their limbs aside to save themselves; For soon the new born year begins to mature a little; As the Summer pours scorched desert winds at the feet to Spring’s last fury; Where the only tree; A Boab lives in the desolate field; Shade to a midday sun in now just moments of solace on the cracked earth of the start to a great dry; No wet season for the Summer Sun this passing of the moon; Never the less, Autumn waits, but here no leaves fall, these stressed and dying; One by one the Swamp Bloodwoods fall, whole trees, carcases to the season; No rain in ten long years, but for last Spring’s drop; Now Winter weeps, the driest of drys, no red sap left to bleed; Except to wait, wait for the break from the monotony to this vast dry; Just only can wait as the dust storm widens, then, quiet; Listen, the scent is on the wind, that smell of dust as it’s cut by rain, here comes the walls; The rolling wild of mud and the gush water, a wash the land for weeks; Though soon it passes, ever slow as shoots of grass, and seed born trees begin to top the fallow; To earth alive again once more, before a tropical inland sun.

cropped-mv.jpgSo I’ve not posted much in awhile, but it’s Summer here, and there’s so much to do.

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