After Pumping

In summer when the day

burns its way through weeks

and months, and the rain gauge

collects sediments of dust,

and evenings are cowls

of super-heated light

cooled to tepid night,

the sprinklers

dowse the lawn

in ochre water forced

up from the dam

by the snarling pump;

amongst the paddocks'

fading yellows and browns,

an indelible lawn

cools the mind.

The pump coughs

and fills with silence,

and deadwood flickers

along the fenceline-

the tawny frogmouth

moves with caution,

always away from

the green incursion.