Like stale water over charcoal,
The smell of smoke pools, eddies
And gullies, robbed of all their secrets,
Lie, helpless beneath the single,
Judgemental eye of the moon.
Cold as sleeper spikes,
Stars bury themselves in the iron sky.
Trunks, as if to avoid detection,
Cling on to the darkness.
Stripped banksia branches point accusingly upwards.
Grey as spoiled snow,
The forest’s orchestra pit lies deserted.
The choristers and musicians have all gone

And of the audience,
Only I remain.