Hot sun, cloudless sky.
As far the eye sees, flat empty plain.
The track threads its lonely way to
the shimmering horizon.
The merciless sun drums the mulga bush.
On one side of the endless track,
slowly crumbling into dust.
Roof long since caved in,
snapped and rotten timbers
for an occasional magpie
or galah to nest in.
Empty window frame socket rattles.
Small ripple wind harp sings
and courts the old almond tree
beside the window frame.
This tuneful little wind turns,
seeking a way out of the maze
of rubbled sandstone,
finds a small hole in the one complete wall,
tumbles down the path.
Out through the wicker gate it goes.
The wind is free, and whisks off
across the purple plain
as the crumbling ruin
returns to silent peace