Hard pelting rain hits her head
Boots already surrendered to mud
Her arms outstretch
To the wide unrelenting grey
She screams blasphemies to God.
Or the Devil. It doesn’t matter much.
Neither will pay her any mind

Perhaps it would have been better
Never to have touched him
Never to have felt the harshness
Of his kisses, or the softness of his tongue
Never to have watched him come.
She could have spent a sweet life
Sleeping in a cushion of bland ignorance

But instead her body remembers him
Celebrates, longs for, demands
And pleads for his return
Her voice whips out of her mouth
Caught in the fingers of wind that snap
Across the flat Oxley plain.

She sinks down into the earth
Mourning her soul
Along side his.
Now not even Music can bring
Her outlaw lover home