Les Littleford (25 April 1943 / Warwickshire, England)
Across the wind scraped, sun baked paddocks of the Never Never
like rust encrusted Boabs
overflowing only with forgotten memories
and broken dreams. Winter winds entangle spinifex,
summer sun patterns the rust
and the flood cleans everything
as it always has. This was the new Eldorado
across the Inland Sea.Mirages both.
The oldest of lands in harmony with
but settlement indifferent.
The land’s enduring strength revealed
by ruins of grand designs
enveloped by creeper and vine
eroded by flood
warped by heat.
And belittled by Indigenous beauty.
Sweeping chasms, giant forests, sculptured rock.
While the marvels of their age
Stand in the sun
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