Fallow

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  • INK AND QUILL

    On fallow,
    Torn, faded fabric,
    River rocks,
    Caught the tatters of her threads,
    Taunted and bellowed, the garden snakes riff,
    Her feet a shell of broken skin and bone,
    Behind a weatherboard shack,
    Peeling the paint back,
    The door of rotting timber, falls from the hinges,
    Axes and hatchets to build their town,
    Fringed and ram shacked,
    At the edge of the cliff,
    Seagulls squawk and squall,
    The sound of the sea,
    The fire pit in raging glee,
    She rests beside the heath,
    The pain, hushed,
    Muted to the tones,
    Of home.

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