Jill McKeowen #8 Creative

Creative

Too quickly you declare yourself

on arid ground with nothing to give,

presume a flat horizon;

but learn from kangaroo in the dry,

pulling surface sand away, dumping

her belly in the cool hole to wait

for sacks of rain swelling over

the continent, cyclone ends

like feathers dragging

muddy torrents; in hours

the land swims with seed

of grasses, pink everlastings.

The desert is wet with colour,

a mauve and orange reef housing  

thousands of golden budgerigars

like leaves of a desert lime flocking,

furiously breeding, pollinating

scarlet land, cobalt sky.

The centre is mapped in patterns,

nomadic abundance

always returning.