hills without trees and dried-up rivers
intravenously wind their way through 
towns verging on sleepytime status as
down in a park people light barbecues 
or play football ruckmen and rovers all 
blend into one in the twilight as seeing
the ball gets harder noses get bruised 
laughter echoes down concrete canals 
from under leaves and lamplights frogs 
harmonise like green and brown chorus
singers (go to sleep riverina go to sleep
little babies and frogs go to sleep like a
lullaby rivers dream themselves south 
though they bear no water like an old
party line with no subscribers (maybe
one day a raincloud picks up the phone
and the frogs break into song again and 
the green grass return to the park and
all the people fall asleep at once) more
listening to the dead lullaby of the land