How natural the rust comes to feel,
planted in ruins that cross-cut
timber in the bush,
dark freckles
breaking out and spreading, filling
out the sounds of sawing, drawing
iron oxide from a base line pulsing
from fishing coast to peak,
a brown sky standing, erupting
through the green smear
of lowland grass.
So, come,
your colour's calling,
to your red sea swimnming, come
and paint your face with ocre,
feel the dark land dry against your skin.