Heritage

Once,

seasons were prime for planting

seed drilled into soft soil

long hard days shared with dad

later fields rippled in the breeze

heavy swollen heads

ready to reap.

Now,

I drive along dry creek banks

my battered ute leaving livid marks in dry red soil

No clouds adrift

the treasured memory

of the sweet smell of damp earth

barely perceptible now

Drought tortures the country

sucked dry, like desiccated bone.

I,

could surrender to the wisdom of many

“It’s too hard to farm now — climate change.”

Damning the legacy

of generations who struggled

I turn the radio on and smile

Paul Kelly is singing ‘Petrichor’

I will experience

that remarkable aroma again.