Driving. I take photos through the driver's side window,
or walk back and find the right trees.
It feels luxurious to stop and capture the dusk light.
No deadline, no explanations. A cool wind blows.

Slate sky and sunlit branches, eucalypts link arms overhead,
roughshod, ragged, lovely. White curves and jagged edges
against a dark backdrop; the sober formality of pine trees,
rows of dour regularity.

A battlefield, churned turf and emptiness.
On the far side the next crop of plantation gums and pines huddle,
curved trunks leaning together, away from the stark sunlight.

An old stone home stands with cows, salt-damp up to its windows.
The shed has given up its walls, the galvanised roof sits complete,
but grounded.

Bare-faced grapevines and olives grid the Willunga roads.
Fruit trees wear netting to bluff the cockatoos.

Driving the beach road, past the pebble house,
looking for agave. It's tall Seussian spikes stand
opposite Joan's house.

Black tea and chat.
Running fingers through the fur of two standard poodles,
accustomed to mellow afternoons.