Dust rises from the tramping feet
Of skinny cattle moving down the track
Between brown and empty fields
Which bear no living crops
Where the earth, dried and caked
Cracked and baked
Solid in its crustiness
Lies parched beneath a burning sun
The land cries out for moisture
Waiting for anything to drink
Any drops to slake and quench its thirst
Its loamy texture long since desiccated
Crumbling in the empty air
Turning into shifting sand
Which slowly drifts and piles
Driven by an arid wind
Whispering as it blows
The crops lie burned and beaten
Defeated by the dryness
Roots withered and lifeless
Straw-like stretchings
Down between the cracks
Of powdered soil
Exhausted by the struggle to survive
Shrivelled and stunted
In the cratered furrows
No dew or rain has fallen
From out the cloudless sky
As if some curse or punishment
Withholds the water
From the needy
Any liquid long receded
Deep beneath the surface
Where none can reach it
Leaving not a thing alive
A gasping, choking death
Of this sterile landscape
In the over-heated breeze
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012
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