The river bed, all white with salt
sucks in her cheeks
and picks her mint green scabs
with stick fingers.
River Red Gums lean in close,
they send their patient roots to reach down
deep. A silver thread is all that’s left
to mirror the mountain.
What the river cannot see is how the water,
sinking back, has stitched a tract in fine red
hope — the seedlings strung
and scattered out, along the edge
of its retreat; and salt is blooming strange
white lilies; silently (and in the night)
the dingo plants its perfect