we sit by the o

cean paddocks sipping moisture

from salty scars this is the blee

                                                               ding the in

terminable drift sourcewards by opening

the wet eye we

can leave the bushy one c

losed losen up read

        currents swells sand

        bank accumulation with

        confidence we turn back: an

cestral hints we're striding

inwards in

to the pasteofwhatwilldry to silt

ochre dust in your nails

scratching frying up the hurt the ants

swarm with shadows

                        attached the twine

of a thriving mosaic weaving

__in__out

                       of one another that

                                                      pale,

empty Sky:______

we sit and                             sing the drought

songless is the art this is

the art of a lost child                              (lost child)

trying hard to grow a new

mother        like                                        (new mother)

      wanting kisses on your cheek      (your cheek)

from lips too

                             old

to pucker.                                                   (pucker)