Please forgive my feeble attempts
to paint this scene
it's been nigh on twenty years
though my memory is just as keen.
The sun was low to the horizon in the west
its rays illuminating clouds of rarity in hues
of pink and tones of gold.
Parched ferrous loam enriched with gold
or so the story goes
drizzled with saltbush.
My eyes drawn to a tree
that appeared to have been created
by a master smith.
A fluted trunk of burnished copper
each twist refracting the light
enhancing its majestic form
a wreath tinted with silver as its crown
leaves reflecting light as if polished.
A currawong was in its boughs
chortling as if a bard of old
a wallaroo with coat of maroon
laying at its base
sheep with wool stained red graze
without urgency on the saltbush.
All to soon the light began to retreat and the colour to fade
the currawong stopped singing
the wallaroo absorbed into the shadows
the sheep slowly drifting into the unidentifiable
I start up the old diesel and continue my quest
to the east on the tarmac.