The late sun shines silver in the grass fields,
in the stretch of spinifex sprouting after rain.
It looks like fertile country
but it’s not.
As the wind dips, the quiet rumbles in my ears,
all the world centres here,
under the falling sun,
the country a gift of light and softening air.
I hear the night being called in,
kettles bang, voices lift in the stillness –
the fire coming to life,
and smoke rests along the creekbed.
Before the cold settles for the night
we hobble the camels, pile firewood.
And as the heat falls from the sun
I breath warmth into my skin,
that most days I cover up
for fear of burning,
this late afternoon light is a gentle change.
