A vapour trail adhering to the bed
of the south branch of the Mortlock,
extra weight in water, crystallography.
The bridge—rail lines sandwiching
concrete—is more likely to be washed
away for its weight. The water must
come eventually, in a rush. The scrub’s
died back, quandong fruits seared
to nuts. Lichen’s symbiosis
holding the parasite host together.
Commensal? Guest host? The host
offered near the cemetery where
a recent burial is still piled high.
Walk by reverentially, bright new wire
marking distance. Protocol. Respect.
Bush burial and the bone-dry river white,
dead town, signing living history: sports field,
cricket pitch, school teacher’s cottage,
tea rooms with hinge of iron stove,
golf course overlaid, still active. Degraded
bush, they’d call it. South branch
of Mortlock the salt of their earth,
earth piled high, dust dry, fresh where
the serpent goes and they don’t follow:
there, the river flows
in the shadow of rainbows.