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Apr 2017
There was little left,
On the fields.
The rain had come and gone and it was dry again.
Dusty hands and dusty faces frowned.
Dusty shoes kicked the powder ground,
Heads hung low in the slouching and shaded doorway.

Squinting eyes looked up at the yellow bowl,
Hands covered creased foreheads,
Mouths chewed tobacco in the thin shade of a dying tree.
There was little left to talk about and little less to see.

Children lost marbles in the heavy dust,
And mothers take deep breaths.
The sky turns the colour of dirt and rust.
Another day gone and there is little left to love.
Written by
Caitlyn Stone  F/Australia
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