There is a monstrous vacancy at our core,
A dead red stoneheart, a rocky ground
Mottled by the greygreen tough tussocks
Which soften the sharp edges and tear at
The rusted skin. A winter’s sun, still hard
Sucks the moisture from a pebbled crust.

Secret cities of the desert’s clever life
The great red mounds thrust up from arid grass,
Huge misshapen hard mud breasts.
Their white life, concealed and furtive,
Emerges in the dark to eat the dead.

Light fades quickly so far north, the last of it
A reddish band to mimic the corroded earth.
Night’s thick intimacy obliterates the void.
None can hide here but some pretend, burned
By sun and stained by red and meagre soil they clutch
The hostile but movement here is rare and obvious so
They’ll succeed only if no-one is looking.

Living in extremes is never easy. Frosted at dawn,
The layers are slowly shed with the advancing day
As the creeping light cooks off the sugar dusting
From stone and leaf. Lizards bask as the heat returns.
This is the emptiest of places.