The swooping sadness of the sign posted landscape points me to the long shadow of the past.
Dense red earth with the living memory of hooves decorated with empty bottles of beer lying like glitter to our eyes in the passing van.
The stampeding echo falls like dust on our soft footprints.
The custodians of our mother the earth, our father the sun and family (the water, the air, the plants, the animals) tells stories of law, culture, tradition and ceremony.
Road trains, like a shooting star call to each other in the night.
Animals lay with entrails spread, feeding the carrion birds.
Road signs point us to the nearest pub and fuel stop.
A frustrating love affair with the country.
A land of possibly maybes.
Casting floods, drought and fire. The passion of a too hot love.
Rub your chest with the clean earth. Feel the grains across your arms and on the palms of your hands.
Place the delicate powder of the ghost gum across your forehead to feel me.
For I am of the land.
I am the land.
Slow, heavy, bright, alive, breathing, remembering, feeling your every move.
Dream your dreams. I am still here.
Corrugate me.
Fence me.
Stampede me.
Cut me and take my blood.
Put your strokes of tar paint on my skin and build your house.
I am your mother.
I understand.
I take it with a smile, though sometimes it hurts.
