Bloody Weather

An old man in a flat cap in a paddock.

We have been here before.

He told me then about the weather,

how it stole the life from crops

and he knelt into the soil.

This time, it is still dry.

A stunted dull crop leans

into the ground from whence it came.

It’s a right bugger, he said,

and he pulled the cap’s peak.

Never bloody rains when you want.

He can’t kneel now; the knees have gone.

I ache, he said.

It’s the bloody weather

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