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I'm six years of age and the onlysource of rain. Mirages in my eyesloosen the grip of black earth on sky.Wheatfields swim. Telegraph poles dip, divinginto heatwaves. The one road out of herefumes and slithers through willy-willy dust,fading like the bow in my hairwhich so quickly gets tired.On the long verandah in the heat,the grownups tap laconic veins,their voices like divining rodsaiming for deep, necessary bores. "LennoxWalker says ..." My lashes rainbowand their voices, diaphonous and thin as dragonfliesland on a vision of wet leaves. The skystings and spreads - blue, blue, only blue.WESTERLY, No.2, JUNE, 1989 95