Descended from opportunist graziers that rode the plains.
From the sheep’s back three generations carved up paddocks between dust and drought.
His grandfather built the house from bricks handmade on the property. Dug from the clay that coloured skies and muddied reflections of dying stock.
Wrought iron lace.
A sniper’s gunfire in France killed his older brother.
Father, heartbroken, planted memorial trees. Mother died after fighting grassfires. The younger brother offered a mortgaged inheritance.
He walked away.
Clouds filled holes and through these coloured panes I saw a young man planting pines beside the drive.
I stopped in their shade.