Lord Byron


Suddenly, grey and pink, inches away, a galah, wings flared and huge in a splintered scream across the tinted glass sky… the lucky genius of all the lightly timbered country, of sweet water plains, of old camps by dry rivers, salt lakes, early roads where the long dew days of morning mend the fences of the sun. Of tracks to sudden and ephemeral abundance, of flowers to each pencil scribble horizon, of places to seek a new season’s pattern of rain and seed in a dry land.

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