Mind laboured on stiff ground,
Turning stones, prodding cracked
Pores, bent across places.
And each day like dead bark
Fell from a gasping tree.
Now
there is work; ground turns.
That
sudden muddy eyeHas spread across plains and
The low bush has budded.
Bringing space in cramped air,
Your rain is my living.
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© circa 1973-76