The Wars That Never End.

Listen to the commentary about Iran. Many speaking, few thinking. Even fewer know anything. Take the predictions and throw them over your shoulder with salt. I have heard them all before.

Adelong.

The rain is falling on the tin roof.

The struggling light frames the tree outside my window.

Morning. The same morning in a land that does not keep count.

The world has no need of us.

The kookaburras mock the absurdity of it all.

Iran? Where?

Never heard of it.

America, who said?

*

Home chooses us. I did not expect to be here. I have called many places home, but not like this. I have been camping out. London, Hong Kong, Beijing, Dubai, Islamabad. Yes, all home for a while. There’s a bit of me sprinkled in many lands.

I have followed the sound and forgot the silence. This little place barely whispers. It is nestled in the Snowy Valley where for thousands of years people spoke a language of my father. Some may say it is a refuge. No, it is real. Right now it feels more real than anything I hear or read or watch on the news.

I don’t believe a word of it. Nothing will happen. Nothing will change. Just an old movie with a predictable ending.