Old Adaminaby: Drought Poem by Fiona Wright

Silt, and minerals.
The brittling walls
now float on the waning water,

we see our old town excavate itself -

and our younger wanderings,
their corrosions and pockmarks
grown obvious
with the hard chemistry of time.

The cold water recedes again, and gloats.
The mud cracks into a hopscotch.
A fireplace,
alone among the boulders,
unmoored verandas like loose teeth,
the boundary fences pared away.

The old roads are tightened,
like our skins, and fissured;
We can see how much we've shrunk,
and worn away.
Grown drier.

We touch the old bridge pylons
with the silence and disconnect
of museums.