Hiraeth Down through all these exiled days this parched red land pays some doleful Dreamtime penance to the Sun. And all is still. But memory stirs. For here, where the salmon gum splinters up the thin blue sky into elongate whispering fragments, colours of your hair come cascading down. And when, at last, the weary sky ignites through crimson billows into dusk, the furtive air begins to stir. And brushes me with softness like your hair. My bitter tears rain upon the barren earth to see it green with you.
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