Geoff Wyatt


The horse shifted in shade; the springcart groaned; a wheel scrunched on quartz-pebbles: hard sounds in sparse, dry bush. In the cool beneath corrugated verandah, at one end of which stood a tank bleeding rust from several wounds, and at the other a parched privet, two women took stock of distance beyond scattered gidgee. 'Russerl?' one called. 'Russerl! Bring the glasses, luv!'



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