Outback

Outback

Day was born again to clear, dark skies;
red-orange, cold winter falls on holy ground
that tourists climb to soil and desecrate
while sullen, ancient, drink-wrecked locals
haunt the streets of Alice.

Northwards, under a billion unfamiliar stars,
towards the warmth on miles of black tar track.
We paused at dusk as trucks ploughed on,
pouched animals gaping, splattered
by road-trains that roll like behemoths
through lonely towns.

Under canvas in the outback,
wary of each and every
scratching, shrieking night-noise.

This is no land for soft-skinned Poms,
this burnt land, desiccated, exhausted.
As the sun rises and falls all grows less dry,
reds turn to yellows. Green winter shoots
caught our eye as we trod the place
where the Devil played marbles as a boy.

This scorched land, parched and screaming
for the rain that flows like Heaven's cleansing.
When rivers fill and reptilian danger
lurks silently in creek and bush.
At last we reach the wave-smashed rocky shore,
the swirling sea in which no man can swim alive.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by pen_ash from Pixabay