The butcher’s sign still swings,
though the shop’s been gutted
since Gaz ran a hose from the tailpipe
and left the lights on.
The school gate’s rusted open.
Wind sifts chalk dust
through cracked windows
where names once lined the roll
like prayers in hell.
Down at the silo,
kids mainline in the shadow
of grain that never came.
One girl carved a star
into her thigh—
the first scar
she chose.
The creek runs red when it rains.
No fish, no frogs,
no reason left to lie.
Dogs roam in threes.
Cattle follow fence lines
out of habit, not hope.
Even the sky
hangs lower than it used to,
like it’s tired
of watching us fail.
Mothers drink in sheds.
Fathers forget birthdays.
The baker feeds birds
because they still show up.
And under the rot
of pubs, paddocks
and cracked hope,
the town exhales.
Shallow and slow.
Waiting for someone
to mumble last rites.
Ryan Stone
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