Dust

The night to blow dust the driving rain

Melbourne orange where the desert landed

Every wrinkle in the roads newly sanded

Heat and wind’s gift, their immovable stain.

Permanent marker of nameless ancestors

Falls into the cracks, tinges every edge.

Orange dust-to-dust conté chalk message

Sets surfaces firm after dried waters.

Alert through summer bushfire smoke cloud

Please a clearing breeze. We listen to lies

Big money invents for the yeah-nah crowd.

But orange rebuts all such pleasantries:

Browned every window, dyed wide estuaries,

Ranked amidst wattle, worn atop plumtrees.

Above, bluestone steps at our backdoor this week. Below, the Free Tram Zone at Spencer Street this morning, a week after the dirt rain.