Hypnotised by the flashing strobe of sun
through the trunks of trees, and by
the sandy whorls, slowly growing
beyond, in the ploughed earth of fields,
I drive my silver bubble. I have covered
1,000 kilometres between sun up and now.
My front right tyre sits plumb-bob
on the white line. I barely have to think.
My eyes drift to ruins, rocky outcrops
and abandoned tractors. If my mind
was a memory stick, it would overflow
with images of settlers gathering stones.
If I didn’t have to stop for food and fuel
I might keep driving until I too wasted
into dust. The outback is an anaesthetic,
soothing, surreal. A CD for company,
silos appear as Verdi reaches crescendo
and I feel like I’m in a strange opera
the pipe organ vibration of the engine,
the curtain of silver rain clouds over sunset.
In the soul-bathing light of early evening,
drops of rain lace the dust on my windscreen.
I pull over, give praise from a forgotten place
inside me, as the sun slips under the road ahead.