Easterly winds bring no joy, only endless

dust and howling wolfish sounds in the

thrashing trees, a destination of the mind

and the soul as the truth of our existence

in this wet corner of the continent, well so

it used to be, in the way we remember how

things were. Like the plants, we have lost

our sense of rhythm and the knowledge of

there being a time and a season for each

green plant or husbanded animal, and

terms of reference for new growth and harvest,

are like dropped bags of mixed seeds, sown as they

are scrabbled back into the packets, willy-nilly,

take your chance, come what may emerge,

thrusting itself from the earth in a strange

and unfamiliar season.

Politicians deny what they see, vignerons

relocating south for climates they remember,

graziers’ paddocks being changed from stock to crops,

bleached reefs cannot be ignored as aberrations,

and any self respecting person who sniffs the

breeze like the ancient mariners, knows

                       there is a storm coming,

                     yes a fucking big one

turning one’s back will provide no shelter.