Early morning in a dry land
fumes with sulphur breasts
of birds waking with light
alarm and counterpoint of song
feather-free fans the heavy air.
Tree ferns alert are still
and listen among the wombs of rock
both gaping for the golden rain
impregnating from our old theology
again where rains rush from the sea
lit from beneath by the morning sun,
and wash the leaves with myth marks.
The birds hunt among the leather
purse of buds, heavy-wet with honey,
then curve up through the sea vapours
where it is too high for rain to fall.