Notes

From the portfolio Ten Landscapes, 1976.  Originally with poem by Stephen Gray:

There's no averting the kind of gale

that smears fire beneath it

no deflecting the hopscotch flames

storming from low ravines to the sky

and if the grass is skinned painfully

stropped across like a razor

and firebrands burst like bombshells

and sirens go as if it's doomsday

hold on - because tomorrow

it turns black and grey and green.