The river’s dried up, just the hard sheen

of mud and the cracks like lizard skin

to tell where water once had pooled
and the smell that rises with the day,

the rotting on the bank, the release

of flies and heat a prelude to the bones.
The sky’s a high enamel blue ballooning

from the fixed horizon, the expectation

of morning cloud painted out by noon.
A yard of rusted things — the clapped out

engine block, the plough with broken teeth,

forty-four gallon drums, a water tank,
the low ramshackle of the chicken run,

two black-eyed tractor tyres, children’s toys,

twists of wire — the residue of better times.
There’s no thought of mending the boundary fence,

no talk of breaking drought, no plans

beyond waiting through the afternoon.
And no relief at night, just dark. The stars

are razor cuts in a tight-stretched cobalt sky:

in bed between us the distance and the heat.