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crying in the rain

Ey, the cobbled street still slick with rain,
boots clatter past the soot‑stained mill,
a brass band echoes through the narrow lane,
and grief is folded into pint and hymn.

Oi, the paddock cracks beneath the drought,
gum leaves whisper against the corrugated shed,
mates round the fire, ay; swapping yarns aloud,
and the silence of the bush still remains unsaid.

Ey, the jeepney rattles down the crowded way,
vendors call, their voices braided with the smoke,
oi, the arm bands darken in the monsoon’s sway,
and the chorus of the street bends but never choke.

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