Before The End Of Desert Red

When we talk of ‘roots’ the current scene
abruptly ends – the camera pans a fuzzy
shot that seems to search for something
clearly out of reach to focus on.

Usually it picks a distant mountain range,
there are a few, a piece of bland and endless
desert – arid red with rippled dust, a wind-blown
dune where stunted mulga clings.

The mantra sings of natures’ dreams
in wild magnificence, there the theme
expands beyond belief, there the myth
maintains our origins exist in stark relief.

You know there’s nothing there; a few frilled
lizards eke a sober life, desert plants survive
upon the edge – rains arrive each seventh year.
Nearest to our origins come driving in their 4WDs.

No-one really lives out there. No-one ever really
did. Intrepid city kids of recent years leave tyre
tracks where foot prints did the deed back then,
back when – way before the end of desert red.
© 8 May 2007. I.D. Carswell