Farm (In This 25th Year of Our Hardship)

Artwork by Charlie Robertson

Late night, Rome uni write, failed badly— 

I smell rain through open window, 

it breathes over mouse shit 

still to clean 

scene 

of drought, existing. 

But not allowed to whisper, no murmur 

cost of living is all the rage, 

these days, are coming round again 

dry brown pressure cooked overheatin' 

in my brain. 

Same, same. 

‘It’ll be good in July’, everyone else gets Down Under Christmas. 

But Marge. Marge, that’s when the rains, they a-come. 

But they didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t 

Last year. 

Will this, be served up like the rest? 

Pervasive, all encompassing. 

Lake Allen done'd, dusted. 

He done move that damn pump to the Vineyard dam. 

Her watery Goddess screams at me— 

I gave you, water, year on year, this mechanical thing? 

Me and MY beautiful birds, cumbungi, what will you imagine next? 

She takes her love away, affronted. 

Rare, they leave, diamond firetail, flame robin. 

They hates us. Now. 

We ain't seen the kingfishers, going on a few years, 

The marvel of a red back… you wouldn’t believe it! 

Lost trees, lots. 

He talks about a Landcare planting in August. 

Fuck spending my birthday doing that no-hopeful-shit! 

I’ll be boarding, fucking up someone else’s environment. 

Blue Sky Basin, memories of Vail – it’s been a hard learnin'. 

When you have to consider not the investment, 

But the environmental cost, in. 

Maybe it’s cause I’ve lost joy, 

In life. 

Gaia and the Great Serpent hates me, hates us. 

But managed to miss snakebite no. 6. Bloody miracle, 

red belly black, underfoot. 

Fuck Dec, and Jan and Feb and March 

and then April – really 

This late in the season? 

Win for 2025. 

Eucs are dying, Silver Wattles are not, 

Theys almost petrified. 

I hate BOM more than I hate anything 

Predict, yeah, my tarot is better! 

And I am still learning. 

God damn it BOM just make rain come! 

BOM is indifferent, like the ABC, 

But you’d think being woke 

They’d care about me! 

Who can I whine to? 

Who cares. 

Apparently the strayan government no longer declares drought. 

When did they decide this shit show? 

When cost-of-living collided with covid-national-debt, 

the royal We can’t afford it? 

now. 

Farmers don't matter no more, 

bigger Tasmanian salmon fingerlings to fry. 

and that's a nod to what you don’t want to ever acknowledge 

don'tchu worry 'bout that! 

Got woke people 

an-me, 

to hate! 

We do it for you. 

Heavy liftin', eye open seein'. 

Stuck in limbo of dead brown, grass is brown. 

Fear of anaphylaxis carried on the wind 

breeze is brown 

worn down. 

Wear my shoulders low 

wonder if people notice, 

Have I got weary and frown lines? 

Worry.