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