The black arteries,
A henna of water ghosts,
Tree skeletons under the ochre skin of my country. 
No hope but faith,
This season will turn
The sun, god of this forsakenness,
Etching Sanskrit with rain fingers,
Warnings to heed from the sky alone,
A daring,
A bleaching temptation. 
The eucalypts sway,
Branches cackling,
No mirth in their shade. 
Just a dry dust choke reality.