Standing on a brown bevelled Aussie plain, Somewhere between Yass and Tumut, As the Hume runs south to Melbourne. A broad, green hill fans away and above, Broken rock and scrub litter the lumps. The journey is to the top of that hill Through three shades of green. Fading tufts of grass stand sentinel, Like crested, frill necked lizards, With lids of fluffy, see through yellow. A pitch black crow cries somewhere behind And the lost soul, yearning notes Remind me of her, back by the beach. She floats towards me through the shimmer And haze, the midday light catches her thighs. The muscle lights the late November heat. The sky is a deep, spiritual blue. So blue. And I am alone, yes alone, At the bottom of the repeating hill The energy inside me becomes the energy around me And I am one, with here and everywhere. The ghost of an ancient worn track Winds up from my feet to the top Black flat feet One in front of one behind Dirt and earth in the nails of the toes. And small sweet flies buzz around ankles, Telling the ants to walk around this man. Because he has done enough today, On this well walked ancient track. She waits for him. So he turns his back, On the hill and the sun. And makes the journey back. To her, And the arms he has always loved.
