Now that the jacarandas are in bloom
And the sun hangs far enough south to sting,
Light seeps early into my sleepy room
On these last mornings of our gentle Spring.
The heat that follows will bring a brown glaze
To fields once green and trees once groomed for growth
And bindii will plague worn down walkways,
Kindling many a foul expleted oath.
Parts of the bush will blacken as the fires
Blaze in defiance of our petty plans,
The flames followed by blame and legal mires
While activists will moan and wring their hands.
Then there'll be storms to drench it all again -
Foretold by dusty smells of Summer rain.
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