Words by Patrick Eastough 

 

A scripted mind, I find,  

Rains on itself, 

On its heavy heart, 

a storm, one of its kind. 

 

No! Not just me wearing 

this worse weather. 

Those around me, 

Their souls too, are tearing. 

 

Cats and dogs out there! 

Pummelling down on us all, 

as they dig deep graves, 

we search for safe and rare. 

 

I would like to live out bush. 

Where the worries of tomorrow 

will stay where they belong. 

We won’t make the big push. 

 

Gladly take, take them to death 

with our world, 

their children mean nothing, 

no one will be left, Macbeth.