The angle of my foot the only cruise control,
along the twenty kilometers to Sale from Perry Bridge,
long, straight, lonely roads, off-peak,
where roll
back wide open paddocks,
dotted with ancient gum corpses
bordered by breaks of gum and pine.
Two days ago , the usual stacks of clouds on the horizon
reached out low cumuli trailing in parallax,
looming up misty fingers towards me, over
mixed herds of far Jersey and Guensey,
picking pittance from brown tussocks.
But where the road turned into Sale I was caught up,
in cloud, enameling windscreen, then drip-streaking
its compassion,
which I wiped away at finger twist.
But over days every field anointed -
though little in precipitation,
atomized mist efficiently dispensed
its healing moisture to the thirsty roots.
So that now,
as I prepare to leave,
under mellow sun, I see renewal
in shittiest brown of most neglected fields:
between tussocks, 'love is come again';
virid blades serry luscious.
Hooves sluice in mud,
where desert-dry they clicked the crusts of dirt.
