TULLY GILLAM

A land of rusted sand and stones stretched flat and pinned to the four horizons. Shadows spread like melanomas over the hide of this permanently sunburnt country while rising heatwaves contort the remains of an ancient stockade. An ochre haze suffocates the landscape like a condemned man's hood.

The silence is broken only by a skeletal windmill, aching with every turn of its crooked blades. Swirls of dust circle its sails, straining to resuscitate the sclerotic pump. Cogs turn and groan through worn-down teeth with the erratic beat of a failing heart. 

Beside the windmill stands the husk of a homestead. The rust-bitten roof barely shades the verandah, where a time-weary man slouches in a spindle-back chair. He faces the yard, where the last loquat remains wretchedly rooted, and two wooden crosses, withered and weather-beaten, stand beyond its stump.

But the man does not see these things. With his eyes closed, he watches a distant past where the water flows freely, irrigating an orchard of glistening oranges and plump golden loquats. Galahs bicker in a nearby eucalypt, and wood smoke mingles with wafts of freshly baked apple pie. A girl in her sun-yellow dress twirls barefoot across lush grass, chasing a butterfly tantalisingly out of reach, while a couple sits contentedly on the verandah, hands wrapped around steaming mugs of tea.

A young boy lies on the lawn and blows dandelion seeds off their stems, watching them float away on the breeze. Then he mouths a wish.

But when the old man opens his eyes, the past dissolves. The galahs are gone, the oven cold, the laughter silenced. Only the dying pump persists. Its faded sign reads, Everflow Windmills: Making Dreams Come True.