The future often seems like the past, but it isn't.
I am leaving town soon.
Tonight at the rise of the hill, the black sweep of a bat, the skreek.
Now the wind is up, the chill is in.
I feel that my bones are made of sandstone and mildew, that Sydney feeling.
What will I make of the dry, and the desert?
All around me is transport: trains, planes, dogs out walking.
The past was never the future, something you can only earn.
What have you forgotten, now you are seated and staring at your hands?